


Perfect Fit

by saturn_in_retrograde



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Consensual Barebacking, Deepthroating, Despite the saucy tags this is actually a sweet love story, Drunk Dialing, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, James is softer than he looks, M/M, POV Q, Porn with plot and feelings, Post-Skyfall, Protective James Bond, Q is badder than he looks, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, sexy nerd talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4778684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturn_in_retrograde/pseuds/saturn_in_retrograde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men. Three continents. Ten cities. Twelve months. Time and trouble enough to fall in love.<br/>In which Q sweeps James off his feet with his awkward flirting, genius intellect, smart mouth, sexy librarian cardigans,  raunchy sense of humor...and those red, red lips like cherries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December - Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [完美契合/ Perfect Fit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502343) by [danacathsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danacathsu/pseuds/danacathsu)



> Huge thanks to my first draft/story inspiration betas: ThreeWhiskeyLunch and 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for

_Many thanks to[chibichibit](http://chibichibit.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful 00q manip!_

_I'm on tumblr here[saturn-in-retrograde](http://saturn-in-retrograde.tumblr.com/)_

 

_December - Paris_

Q hears the soft fall of feet on the hard surfaced floor, feels the air move and swirl around him; feels the jolt of contact as an expensive dark wool coat brushes against his black nylon parka. The other man sits down next to him on the bench, shoulders just touching.

“007."

“Q.”

They sit on the grey bench in the center of the softly lit white oval room, the beautiful vista of Monet’s _Water Lilies_ in their 360 degree splendor all around them. The flowering plants, grasses and tree fronds in the paintings all blend into the rippled surface of the water, disappear into the unseen depths below.

Q’s been working with James now for several months, since he started as the new Head of Q Branch. This is only the second time they’ve met like this, alone, outside of MI6. James Bond is attractive in photos, but in real life, he is devastating. Not just because of his body and facial features, which are a perfect study of chiseled, masculine perfection; it’s his eyes, how blue they are, how they look at you; often disconcerting, always arousing. And it doesn’t stop with the physical traits; James is extremely intelligent, worldly, multilingual...and extremely deadly. It all turns him on to near distraction.

But James knows all that, too, and uses it to his advantage, always the master strategist. Q is never quite sure what’s real and what’s not where James Bond is concerned. That's probably what keeps 007 alive...and Q at a distance.

Regardless, his attraction to him is growing by the day. By minutes and seconds, now that he’s sitting right next to him, shoulders touching. He imagines electricity arcing between them in the millimeters of space between wool and nylon, like actual sparks of fire; he wonders if James feels anything. Then feels stupid for thinking that.

Q tries not to stare at him. _Keep it together, Q_ , he thinks to himself. _You’re just a colleague to him, nothing more_. And technically, as Head of Q Branch he outranks James Bond at MI6, which seems almost absurd, considering the gulf between them in age and experience. But not intelligence; he is his equal there, and then some.

Q searches for something conversational to say. He knows he’s not particularly likable; he’s been called arrogant by some, introverted by all, and many others have found his particular brand of razor sharp sarcasm too cutting. With James, though, it seems different. James is arrogant as fuck, too, always gives back as good as he gets. He’s an adversary worth verbally sparring with; sometimes James gets the better of him, once he turns those blue eyes on him and Q’s words die on his lips as he imagines kissing him. But he’s not going to let James know that.

“Sorry to hear about Skyfall,” Q finally says, pretending to study the painting. “By all accounts, it was a grand old house.”

“It was just a house. Things can be replaced.” James also stares straight ahead at the painting. “Sometimes it’s good to burn down the past.”

Q thinks of what happened there and offers his condolences. “Sorry about M.” He knows that James and M had been close. That was obvious to everybody, even him, only having just arrived to Q Branch. “I wish I’d known her better.”

James stiffens a bit, takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too. There will never be another like her. Can’t replace that.”

They stare at the painting in silence for a while, each lost in thought.

Q tilts his head, points straight ahead, changes the subject. “Humor me. What do you see, when you look at that?”

James laughs then, the melancholy tension broken. “We’ve been down this road before. I see a bloody big pond, is what I see.”

Q turns to him, a serious look on his usually serious-looking face. He knows better. He knows those eyes never miss a thing, knows that brain never stops working.

“I think you see a lot more than that. But you just don’t want to say because you might reveal something about yourself. Beautiful art usually does that to people. Makes them feel and say things they don’t even know is in them.”

James moves his eyes from the painting, then unexpectedly trains them straight on him. Q freezes, feels his breathing stop for a moment. Q wonders what James sees when he looks at him like that. Just another forgettable office techie, probably doesn’t even take him seriously as Head of Q Branch. Probably he sees nothing at all.

“How old _are_ you, Q?”

“I’m 32.”

“My God,” James says, doing the math in his head as he rubs his hand over the day-old stubble on his chin. “I’m only 12 years older than you. Christ, I look old, compared to you. I think I’m having an existential crisis.”

“I know I look young.” Q bristles a little. He’s entirely aware of his regretfully youthful appearance. All the suits and ties and mature cardigans he owns don’t age him up a bit. “It’s not easy to get people to respect me. But I’m eminently qualified.”

“Yes, you’ve proven that.” James is silent for a moment, then smiles as he remembers something. “The first time I met you, I thought you were just some Uni art student hitting on me.”

“Apparently, I was remarkably easy to resist. You were getting up to walk away.” Q tries to make a joke, but somehow it falls flat; sounds more like a complaint than a joke. Embarrassing. Christ, he should never try to be funny.

“Well.” James smiles again, still looking at him. His eyes slide over his face, studying him like he had just been studying that painting. “Just so you know…it wasn’t _easy_.”

Q feels heat creep up the back of his neck. Shit, it was hot in this suit and parka. He reaches up and rubs behind his collar, searches for a comeback but finds nothing. James is a flirt, everybody knows that. No reason to think he’s any different from anyone one else James ever flirts with recreationally. He tears his eyes away, looks back at the painting.

“Do you always choose museums for a meeting?” James asks, nonchalantly, keeping the conversation going for the both of them.

Q sneaks a sideways glance at him, admires the handsome profile. “Why not?” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s nice to mix business and pleasure.”

James glances back at him, raises an eyebrow. “Is it, now?”

Q quickly snaps his eyes back to the painting. “That’s not what I mean.”

 _Or is it?_ Q wonders, flustered by his own revealing gaffe. Second one in the past minute, in fact. God, it’s almost like he’s awkwardly flirting right back, despite his best efforts not to.

“Why do you know so much about art?” James asks. “I thought you were some sort of army demolitions expert and computer genius sort.”

“Oh. Well. The army supported my way through school. I have a PhD in computer science. But I also got a dual degree in Art History. The army taught me all the weapons tech. Some I taught myself.”

“But why the art degree?” James probes.

Q shrugs again, racks his brain for a suitable explanation. “Art is about finding meaning in lines and dots, colors and context. Making sense of patterns. What's shown is just as important as what's not shown. Computer code isn’t really so far from that.”

James turns back to the painting, gestures at it. “What do _you_ see, then, when you look at that?”

Q thinks for a moment. “I see something beautiful on the surface, but there's something deeper, something mysterious and deadly, just underneath. Something that lures you in but could drown you if you’re not careful.”

James looks at the painting for a few more seconds, then directly back at Q again, his eyes roaming almost imperceptibly over his face. “That’s exactly what I see.”

The heat from Q’s neck is creeping upwards. He pulls at his collar again; his tie is much too tight. He clears his throat. “We’re both a little dark, then, aren’t we? I think these paintings are supposed to be uplifting.”

James laughs, dispelling the darkening mood once again. “Oh, Q, you’ll make a philosopher of me yet.” He claps Q good-naturedly on the shoulder, changing the subject yet again. “So have you got anything for me?”

Q’s shoulder burns under James’s hand, which still rests there. _Yeah, I’ve got something for you_ , his mind says automatically, saucily. But he puts that thought straight out the door. He has to be careful, he could definitely drown in James Bond. He tosses his head to get a curl out of his eyes, digs into his messenger bag on the bench beside him to distract himself from his thoughts.

“Here’s the latest and greatest from Q Branch.”

He hands an envelope to James, full of the documents he will need for his next mission. James has to remove the hand from his shoulder to take the documents, which he stuffs into an inside pocket of his suit jacket. Q misses its heat and weight.

Next Q hands him a watch. “I had this retrofitted for you. Press the button on the side, just there, and a needle comes out the other side. Prick your mark with this, and they’ll be out in seconds, won’t wake for hours.”

James takes the watch, inspects it, then slides it on his wrist without comment.

Then Q hands him a small metal box, long and thin. James opens it up, raises an eyebrow again, unimpressed.

“A pen?”

“Not just any pen. An exploding pen. I know your generation likes the retro stuff.”

Q can’t help himself, it's his own dark sense of humor; a joke to mark the first time they met. The pen is fully functional, though, and very, very deadly.

A slow smile creeps over James’s face. “Very funny. That simple radio you gave me last time was actually quite helpful.”

“Oh, the pen is also a radio. Just click it. Yes, just like that. Don’t twist the cap, though. Because then it will explode. If you twist the cap you’ll have a fifteen second delay. I must warn you, it could take out this whole museum so don't play around with it. And also, I, ah, I had your initials engraved on it. Makes it look more, you know…not lethal.”

James clicks the pen on and off several times, deliberately playing around with it. He rolls the gold metal cylinder between his fingers to bring the initials to the surface, admires the _JB_ etched in a fancy, masculine font.

“I like this very much. Does it work like a pen, too? What if I just need to sign a receipt for my expense account?”

Q sighs dramatically. “Luddite. It works just like a pen, too.”

Still smiling, James clicks it once more, but then puts it back in the box and stows it in a pocket. “It really _is_ Christmas."

Q is ridiculously pleased, tries to keep his face straight. He actually put quite a lot of thought into it, maybe more than needed. Probably a little overkill with the initials, which were not strictly necessary. Suddenly needing to move around, to move away from James’s warm and solid shoulder, he stands up. James follows his lead and stands up, too.

“It really is almost Christmas, just a week away,” Q remarks, attempting normal conversation.

"So it is." James pauses while pulling on his gloves, then asks an unexpectedly personal question. “So you’ll go home for the holidays, then? Spend time with your family? Or your...partner?”

Q frowns. “I don’t have any family.” He blushes against his will. He knows it's obvious, his pale skin hides nothing. “Or partner.”

“Ah. So you’re another member of our illustrious club of agents with no ties." A wistful look crosses James’s face, then he laughs a little sarcastically. “We’d probably all be good company to each other, if we weren't such a pack of unsociable, irritable pricks.”

A smile finally creeps across Q’s face. “You’re not so bad. Moneypenny’s ok, too.”

“You’re not so bad, yourself,” James says, his smile deepening, still lingering.

Suddenly flustered, Q holds out his hand, trying to act like an adult; like the goddamn Head of Q Branch conducting important espionage business, not a starstruck, stuttering teenager. He pulls his shoulders up straight and projects his voice, just like he’s practiced. "Good luck, 007.”

James reaches out to take it, the warm black leather of his glove enveloping Q’s long-fingered bare hand, gripping it firmly, hanging on just a moment or two longer than necessary. “Thank you, Q. Same to you.”

James leaves then, moving away with an easy predatory glide to his walk. Q wills him to turn back, a sudden wave of uncontrolled desire flooding through him, his hand still tingling from the feel of James’s glove pressing into it.

_Look at me. I’m right here. See me. See how I look at you._

And then he quickly looks down to hide his face as he pulls out his own gloves, just in case James actually does. From under his eyelashes, Q watches him pause in the doorway to take one last look at the paintings before he walks out, but he does not turn back, does not even spare him one last glance.

“Cheers,” Q says out loud to no one in particular. With a heavy sigh he slowly sits back down on the bench. He falls back into an absorbed, melancholy study of the paintings, thinking of his past.

Christmas isn't really a thing for him, not since he was nine. Not after his mother died, and his father disappeared into a bottle of whiskey and then disappeared for real. Not really a lot of great memories for a skinny, troubled, abnormally intelligent kid who acted out in all kinds of inappropriate ways from behind a keyboard, exercising power and control in the only way he knew how - or so the endless parade of kindly but unhelpful therapists had explained to him over the years.

He had spent most of his youth passed from one foster home to another or in juvenile offender institutions, one or two of which he had particularly disliked. Places which might have, perhaps, suffered extensive damage from a fire or an explosion they could not explain; enough damage to require rehoming somewhere else that had sometimes been better, or sometime worse. And so the cycle had continued; lather, rinse, repeat. Until he’d finally aged out of the system, recruited right into the military. Which might be the best thing that could have happened to him, certainly better than other more likely alternatives.

_Fuck it._

That’s all far behind him now. Time to forget all that. Now he has a stellar job, an excellent future ahead of him, and he needs to concentrate on that. He needs to forget this thing he feels for James Bond. He knows that playing any kind of game with James, verbal or otherwise, is playing with fire; but then again, he’s always had a hard-on for all things hot and dangerous. Thinking back to the conversation with James about Skyfall, though, he can’t help but feel a connection to him, an understanding deeper than just physical attraction.

_Q, too, knows all about burning down the past._


	2. January - Zagreb

Q guns the motorbike, twists down on the throttles, hard, the closer he gets. He knows a lot about motorbikes; had developed quite an obsession for them in his teens. Well, for motorbikes and matches and computers, and a few other dangerous and illegal things. It was about time all that paid off.

“Hang tight, I’ve got your gun!” Q yells for his ear mic to pick up.

“Go back! I told you to go back!” James’s voice is crackly over the com...and very angry.

“Get the fuck back here, Q!” Another angry voice joins in. That would be Tanner, the mission coordinator. Whom Q has just directly disobeyed.

At high speed, he swings his weight to the side, tips the motorbike over with him. It’s a cold January night in Zagreb and the streets are wet and a little bit icy. He scrambles off as he lays the motorbike down on the ground, jumps clear of it, sends it flying easily over the slick pavement into the black SUV and the man with the automatic rifle standing in front of it. The SUV goes up in a ball of fire and the gunfire comes to a halt, at least from that particular shooter.

“Almost there, 007…”

Q rolls across the pavement, holds an AK-47 close to his chest under the flap of his parka, praying the lock is still engaged. He regains his feet, jumps over the embankment to where he knows James is pinned down without a weapon.

“Incoming!”

He leaps blindly into space, his arms flailing, trusting that James will catch him. He crashes into a hard body that stops his freefall; his weight carries both of them to the ground.

Once they came to a halt, he’s still dazed but he feels James scramble up to a squatting position. Then he feels James’s strong hands grip his collar and shake him. Their faces are close. James’s blue eyes are wild with fury.

“You crazy little shit! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, hello to you, too!” Q says crossly, taken aback by his harsh tones, coming back to his senses. “Here’s your gun that you dropped.” Q pulls the strap off his shoulder and lays it on the ground beside them, and adds sarcastically, “You’re welcome.”

A hail of new gunfire breaks out around them. Instinctively James lunges forward and holds Q against him, pushes him to the ground again, half on top of him, shielding him. He reaches out and pulls the gun to him, flips off the lock.

“Thank you.” James grumbles this stiffly, reluctantly.

“Where’s your pen, anyway?” Q grumbles back, still nettled, practically speaking into the front of James's leather jacket, the scent of his cologne strong and enticing even amongst the other smells of earth and diesel and acrid gunpowder. “An explosion along the way before I got here might have been helpful. Honestly, I make these nice things for you and then you don’t even use them.”

“It’s at home.” That's all James says, then scowls. “You shouldn’t be here. You could have been killed.”

“Yes, well. I didn’t really have the time to think it through.”

It was true. He’d been in the surveillance van, watching via webcam. He’d seen the original foot chase, which turned into James being nearly run down by the black SUV, then actually run down by the SUV, saw him roll over the bonnet, saw the gun knocked from his hands and clatter to the street. Saw James get up and keep running without the gun.

“Straight! Go straight!” Q had screamed into his mic. “There’s cover in front of you! Jump over that little hill, the vehicles can’t get to you, at least not right away! Right! Veer right...”

James listened to the directions, kept running. Q saw him leap the embankment in front of the river, with no other way out but the cold, dark Sava River behind them running through the heart of Zagreb.

Q knew it was a dead end; he’d had the city map in front of him. But there had been no other choice. It would buy a little time, and sometimes that's all anybody needed. Everybody else in the van, Moneypenny and Tanner, had seen the dead end, too.

“Shit.” Tanner had said. “No way out.” He’d paused. “Stand down. He’ll either get out, or he won't. We can’t blow our cover, we're not even supposed to be here."

Q hadn’t yet been in the field all that much, up until now. Tanner’s words had shocked and offended him. Q had been a Major in the Royal Engineering Corps, for Christ’s sake. He’d never been big or tough and he’d spent most of his time in the research and development labs, but if there was one thing he did know, you didn’t leave a man behind. You didn’t leave James Bond behind. _He_ would never leave him behind.

_Fuck it._

Q hadn't thought twice. He raked the headset off and threw it down on his keyboard, pulled open a cabinet door and shoved his pockets full of grenades and other weapons gadgetry, then pushed open the van door. He heard voices yelling at him, especially Tanner.

“Get back here, Q, or I’ll have you strung up for this!”

But he ignored them all. He cast his eyes around the street to where he knew he’d seen a motorbike, just the kind he’d used to have; it was child’s play to hotwire it. He leaned over and scooped up the dropped gun as he sped past it, fumbled to lock it with one hand, slipped the shoulder strap over his head...

In retrospect, perhaps he _had_ been a bit rash. He really was more of a desk-job kind of guy.

So this is how Q finds himself here right now, James balancing on top of him, groin to groin, the toes of James's boots digging into the ground for purchase, his long legs laying flat and heavy over Q's; James is concentrating on looking down the scope of the rifle, Q is concentrating on not getting a hard-on. Q tries to ignore the feeling of the weight of James Bond pressing down on him, the feel of his body heat. Q slips his hand between them, digs into his pockets at his sides. James looks down at him then, now a little distracted, feeling the groping hands below him about waist level, the hard things Q is bringing out poking into him.

“I’m not just happy to see you,” Q quips weakly, fueled by the adrenaline, amazed he is still in one piece. “I have presents for you.” He holds a grenade up, offering it. “Delivered personally. In case, you know, you need it. Although, I am, um, happy to see you. Alive, I mean…”

He quits while he is behind. Suggestive humor is not his forte, as he has already learned.

James takes the grenade and smiles widely. With his free hand, he reaches down and grabs Q’s coat at the collar again, hauls his face up to his. With an embellished flourish he soundly kisses Q square on the forehead, then lets him go again. Q drops back to the ground, surprised, his hands in the air at his sides, not sure what to do with them.

“You’re the best damn Quartermaster I’ve ever had. We just might get out of this, after all.”

It’s all a blur from there—explosions, gunfire, screams, heat, fear, exhilaration. A low-slung black car screeches to a halt in front of them, Moneypenny behind the wheel, yelling at them to get in, clearly having decided to disobey orders, too.

Q hurls himself into the backseat after James, falls nearly on top of him, ducks as a shower of bullets slams into the back of the car. His head ends up in James’s lap. James ducks and leans forward, covering him again. More bullets rain down on them. A hand tangles in Q’s hair, pushing his head down more. Then the car lurches forward with renewed speed and the gunfire dies away into the distance.

The sudden silence is unnerving; now just the quiet purr of the engine, the hiss of wheels on wet pavement, the echo of their own heavy breathing. But James doesn’t straighten up right away, the heat of his body seeps into Q’s back. Hot breath fans across the nape of Q’s neck, the fingers stay tangled in his hair; Q finds his mouth next to a zipper.

For a moment time seems to stand still; he feels James’s fingertips begin to move through his hair, almost a caress. He senses the briefest of pressure against the back of his head, his nose presses inexorably into the front of those grey wool trousers. His heart hammers in his chest, his entire body electrified, his mouth opens slightly…

But just as quickly the pressure releases and the hand slides away, and James lifts his weight off of him.

Q slowly straightens up, moves away a few inches, not sure if that pressure he’d felt had been from accident or design.

James shoots a glance at him, then quickly looks away again, out the window on his side. “All right?” he asks, his voice gentle, but strained and husky.

“Yes. Surprisingly.”

“Good." His jaw works in agitation, profile mirrored in the window. “Just don’t ever do that again. I’d like you to stay in the van next time. No matter what.”

Q pulls his shoulders up ramrod straight, suddenly stubborn. “I’ll do whatever the job calls for. No matter what. And you can like it or not.”

James shoots him another quick glance, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “Cheeky.”

James then stretches out an arm across the back seat of the car, just above him, Q’s slim shoulders just about slotting right into James's underarm, but not quite touching. Q then notices a pair of dark and curious eyes staring at them in the rear view mirror, as does James.

“Eyes on the road, Moneypenny,” James warns, gentle humor in his voice. Her glance slides away without comment and the car drives on in silence.

James rests his head back against the soft black leather, closes his eyes. To Q’s disappointment, that arm, that heavy, distracting presence above him, does not fall lower to drape across his shoulders. Q looks out his window for a while, unseeing, then he finally closes his eyes, too. Haunted by the caress of fingertips in his hair, a gentle pressure bearing down, his mouth against a bulge of soft wool fabric.

_Field work was turning out to be far more hazardous than he thought._


	3. February - Chicago

“Q. I need Q.”

Q suddenly sits up straight in his seat in the surveillance van, hearing James say his name.

“Get in here, Q. Now.”

Q turns to look at the others in the cramped space, who just look at each other and shrug. Q takes off his headset and exits the van, slips a small mic into his ear.

“What?” he hisses, teeth chattering, pulling open the heavy wooden doors to the jazz club. “I thought you told me to stay in the van. _No matter what_ ,” he mimics, remembering their last personal encounter with a mix of irritation and frustrated desire.

A wave of heat blasts into him as he walks in, contrasts with the freezing outside air blowing in off the lake. He can’t believe how brutally cold it can be in Chicago in February.

James ignores his remark, gives him another short command. “Come to the bar.”

The cavernous room is dark and crowded, buzzing with talk and laughter. The loud sounds of jazz from the live band at the back of the room still manage to rise above the din. Looking around, his glasses fogging up, Q feels self-consciously underdressed in this swanky place. Before his lenses entirely white out he spots James lounging casually at the bar, stunningly handsome in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, black skinny tie, and perfectly polished black dress shoes, looking very suave with a martini glass in his hand. Q puts his useless glasses in a pocket and perches carefully on top of a bar stool next to James.

He just finishes unzipping his oversized parka, exposing his button down shirt, tie and cardigan when James suddenly swivels to face him more directly. He leans in very close, his face just inches away once again. This time he is not angry; he’s all soft, somehow, his eyes are heavy lidded but still watchful. Q can see the beginnings of tiny lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, years of outdoor sun and wind taking its toll. Q can’t look away, skewered by that gaze.

“Kiss me.”

Q freezes. He isn’t quite sure he heard that correctly above the noise. His parka slithers off the tops of his legs to either side with a whisper of nylon over dark cotton jeans.

“P-pardon?”

The scent of James’ cologne is all around him again; intense, delicious, disorienting to his senses which are suddenly on high alert. Strong hands grip his legs just above the knees and Q jumps in surprise, but freezes again as those hands continue to slide upwards slowly and then tighten on his thighs to yank him closer, pulling the bar stool after him with a scrape and hop of rubber-tipped steel legs across the floor. Q’s heart begins to hammer. He feels something drop in the pit of his stomach; panic and desire in equal measure, fighting it out.

“Kiss me,” James whispers urgently. “Now.”

Q knows that commanding tone of voice; he’s heard it over his headset on more than a few missions by now. It snaps him back to reality a bit. There’s a professional reason for this. Of course there is. Silly to have been even momentarily confused about that. _He can do this_. He calms himself with a deep breath, leans forward, and chastely presses his lips to James’s.

James growls deep in his throat, pulls back just slightly.

“Not like that. Make that man over there who’s watching us believe we’re lovers. Put your back into it, will you?”

Q flushes at the chastisement, although it had not been said unkindly. God knows he’s watched this often enough on the video monitor, when James had been with some other person in some other bar in some other city. But this time, it was him.

He’s seen enough to know what James likes. He closes his eyes, leans back in. His hands come to either side of James’s face, slide back a little, his long fingers nearly lace at the back of that perfectly sculpted head of short-cropped hair, scratchy-soft. Q touches his lips to James’s again, this time with planned purpose. James accepts him gently, but now with more interest. Q moves his lips over James’s lightly again and again, speaking silent words against them, all those things he thinks constantly from behind his computer screen but will never say out loud.

 _I want you please see me I’m right here in front of you I want you_ …

Q slides forward more on his barstool, closer to James, feels those strong, large hands now pushing apart his thighs even more to make room for a knee to fit between them. Q has studied James’s every nuance in past grainy video footage more than he should have, fascinated and aroused and envious every time he watches. He knows exactly the moment to give over to James; James likes it when others flirt with him, start it with him, but James always finishes it.

Q angles his head, stills; he waits, breathless. Their lips are just barely touching, mouths slightly open; Q’s pent up desire escapes just a little and he exhales long and slow and breathes a sigh of pleasure into James, despite his efforts to not give too much away.

That should have been enough for the job. It should have ended there. But it doesn't. One of James’s hands suddenly snakes under the parka and wraps around his waist and the other around the back of his neck, pulling him forward. James stands up, spreading Q’s thighs wider as he wedges his hips between them, feet flat on the floor, his legs wide apart, anchoring. James crushes Q close to him, chest to chest; when he kisses Q again, his lips demand Q open up to him, the taste of vodka and smoke strong on James’s tongue, insistent fingertips digging into his shoulders between the blades, the back of his neck. The sounds of music and voices slip away, he even almost forgets about the surveillance van camera trained on them…

_Fuck it._

Q puts his back into it. He arches, his chin tilting up, allowing James full access to his mouth, his neck. Even as it’s happening, he knows this will end, this isn’t real, knows he will never forget it, never find this satisfaction with anyone else. But he can pretend, just for this moment, that James really means it, really wants him. James’s hand is in his hair, tangling in it, pulling his head back, his mouth at the edge of his curls just below his ear, across his jaw, up to his lips again. James pushes forward more, and this time the fronts of their trousers brush together. Q lets out a groan at the sudden pressure against his erection, which has been growing harder and harder by the second; but to his genuine amazement, can feel that James is hard, too.

They both stop moving, suddenly acutely aware of just how physical this has become; the charade has turned into something else. James pulls his mouth away slowly. Both are silent for a few long seconds while they stare at each other in something like shock. Then James abruptly drops his hands away and steps back. He sits down heavily onto his stool again, uncharacteristically clumsy. He reaches for his martini glass, tosses his head back and finishes it off in one large swallow. Then rolls his head on his shoulders, smoothes down his jacket and readjusts his tie, subtly rearranges the fabric of his trousers over his crotch. Suave and composed once again.

Q is still and silent, his thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Q sees James’s eyes roam over the crowd at the back of the room, then stop when they land on what Q presumes to be his target. Q looks into the mirror above the bar, can see a tall, handsome man with silver hair staring at them intently. It’s the arms dealer they are after, a man named Vanderburg, who has a known penchant for dashing men like 007. Even without his glasses, the man is so tall and striking Q recognizes him from the file photos.

 _Well, the show’s over_ , Q thinks. His part of the mission is done. This will never happen again. And judging from his devastating reaction to James’s touch, maybe it shouldn’t. His heart floods with misery.

James catches Q’s eyes in the mirror, his face inscrutable. He speaks softly, the mic in his ear picking up his words for the benefit of the surveillance van. “That went well. Now he wants me even more. He’ll follow me anywhere..."

For a moment, Q isn’t sure if James is talking about him or about the mark.

"I’ll lead Vanderberg into an alley,” James finishes, erasing any doubt. “Get ready.”

James stands up, passes behind Q’s chair, but pauses. Still watching him in the mirror, Q sees him take the mic out of his ear, close it in his fist and then slip his hand into his pocket. James leans over Q’s shoulder, letting the weight of his chest rest momentarily against Q’s back. Q feels the brush of warm lips against his earlobe.

“Damn, Q. Well done. You even made _me_ believe it.”

Q shivers at the contact and the words meant just for him, and then the weight is gone. In the mirror, Q watches James melt into the crowd, putting the mic back in his ear so casually no one else would ever notice. He lets his breath out in a long, shuddering exhalation.

_Believe it, James. Believe it._


	4. March - London

Q slows his running down to a stop, leans over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He checks his smartwatch; four miles down, one to go. Sweat drips off his forehead; in the cold air his breath puffs out in front of him in white clouds, condensing to droplets of water in his long, dark eyelashes. He swipes at his eyes with his terrycloth wristband, trying to clear his vision. He still has a lot of work ahead of him after pulling an all-nighter, but it feels good to get out of the office and run while he can, to clear his mind and wake himself up for the meeting that is scheduled in less than an hour.

“Morning, Q," a deep voice says. “Lovely day for a run, isn't it?"

Startled, Q twists at the waist to look behind him where the voice is coming from, still bent over and panting for air.

James is lounging against a retaining wall wearing a sleek agency-provided blue track suit, arms crossed over his chest, feet crossed at the ankles.

"007,” Q says in acknowledgement, trying to catch his breath, trying to act cool. Failing. “What are you doing here?"

“Taking a break and having a run, same as you.” His eyes slide downwards slowly, then up again. "Enjoying the view."

Q is suddenly extremely aware that he is bent over with his arse to James Bond. He blushes, as usual. He is wearing skin-tight black running tights and a tight navy blue long sleeve shirt with just a lightweight vest over it. He looks back in front of him, out across the muddy winter-grey Thames with a sad cluster of rundown warehouses on either bank. This running route does have a lot of good views, but this isn’t one of them.

“Not much to look at.”

“From where I’m standing, I’d say the view is spectacular.”

Q flushes again, straightens up. Damn the man, everything he says flusters him, seems to have some other meaning. Everything sounds vaguely flirty, but he’s like that with everybody.

“Listen, Q. Now that I’ve got a moment, I just wanted to say something. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for what you did in Zagreb. You probably saved my life. Hell, you saved the whole mission. Bloody well done.”

“Oh. Well.” Q studies his light gloves, adjusting them fingertip by fingertip, embarrassed. “Forget it. Anybody would’ve done the same.”

“Er - no,” James clarifies with certainty. “You heard it yourself, you were all told to abandon the mission. I might have got myself out without help. Then again, I might be six feet under right now. I’m rather glad I’m not.”

Q doesn’t say anything, checks a few settings on his smartwatch, stalling for a reason to look at anything but James. The stats show his heart rate way, way up; alarmingly high, in fact. Pulse racing. Breath rate increasing.

Q has, in fact, paid the price for Zagreb, Tanner on his case all the time after that. _He’s still insecure with the new M_ , Moneypenny had sagely noted. _You showed him up, and he won’t like that. He’s the old shoe and you’re the new shiny penny. He’ll try to take you down - better watch your step._

It’s too hard to look at James. The last time he's seen him in person, James’s tongue had been down his throat and his long, hard dick had been pressed against him. His face flames at just the thought of it.

“I've never really seen you off duty before,” James says. “And here you are, standing right here in front of me, but I don't know what you're thinking. You're always in my head. I mean, you're usually talking into my ear, telling me what to do or asking me whatever comes into your head. ‘Go left, go right. Look at that beautiful sunset, 007. Throw the grenade. What do you think of Picasso? Shooter at five o’clock.’” He pauses, smiles a bit rakishly. “Without you telling me, I’m not sure what to do."

Q almost laughs. It was true, a few times they had chatted, to kill the time when a mission got long. James would be hunkered over a sniper rifle, Q asking him if he preferred Van Gogh or Degas, TS Eliot or Walt Whitman. James asking him if he preferred a Fallkniven P or a Buck Alpha Hunter folding knife, or a Beretta 418 or Walther PPK pistol. _Van Gogh, Whitman, Fallkniven P, Walther PPK_. Q remembers everything, everything they’d ever said. But that was before Chicago; after that, they hadn’t had contact at all. Until now.

Q looks up from under his lashes, deliberately prevaricating, not sure where this is going. And then, God help him, he finds himself doing it again; it’s too late to catch the vaguely flirty comment slipping off the tip of his own tongue. “Are you in need of some direction?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure how far I can go with you. I wouldn't mind you giving me some direction in that area."

Q feels James's intense gaze on him. His face burns again. He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know what to read into it, if anything.

"MI6 is that way,” Q challenges saucily, pointing, looking for any distraction to ease the tension. “About another mile. Or is that too far for you? Bet I can get there first.”

James smiles slightly. “I’ll let you have a head start. But I'll catch you just the same."

They stare at each other for just a split second more, immobile, but then gravel explodes under their feet as they both take off running. Q runs hard and fast. He can hear and feel the thud of feet behind him on the ground, catching up. He hurls himself forward with abandon, relishing the cold air against his face, the feel of sun on his skin, the pounding of his heart, pushing himself to his limits.

By the time they reach Vauxhall Gardens, Q is seriously winded. James has been right beside him, neck and neck all the way, back to the peak condition he had been in before Moneypenny shot him off that bridge.

"Oh, Christ,” Q sputters, laughing, finally slowing down and he veers off the path, right into the trunk of a large, old tree where he comes to a stop, his back up against it. James follows him, almost crashes into him face-first but holds out his arms to stop the collision, ends up with one hand on either side of Q’s head, palms flat against the bark.

Neither says anything, lungs heaving, grins on their faces. Until the look on James's face changes subtly, becomes more serious as his breath comes under control. His eyes roam over Q’s face, come back to his eyes. Suddenly James leans in closer, speaks softly.

“Fuck, Q. Look how you’ve got me running after you.”

Q remains motionless against the tree between James's hands, staring into those blue eyes that scrutinize him mercilessly.

“Now you’ve got me curious, and it’s a dangerous thing to make me curious,” James murmurs. “Who are you, really? I’ve tried to check your HR file, but that file is locked down tight.”

“Well, technically speaking, I outrank you at MI6. You don’t have access to that,” Q answers, feeling breathless again with James’s face so close to his. Also feeling somewhat pleased that he has at least one thing that James can’t get.

“Hmmm,” James muses. “That _is_ vexing.” He shifts, one leg moving forward, brushing against the inside of Q’s knee. “I’m sure you’ve read everything there is to know about me. Seen all my failed physical and psychological tests...”

“Standardized tests are meaningless social constructs based on fixed points in time. Bullshit, in other words. M believed in you. So do I.” And he does. No reason to lie about that. And thank god James doesn’t have access to his own psychological profile, there was probably plenty of entertaining reading there.

James smiles tentatively, looks a little surprised by his answer. The look in his eyes softens but his direct gaze still holds him. “Tell me your real name, then. Just your name.”

Q blinks, his back against the rough bark, helpless as a butterfly pinned to a board.

“Boothroyd,” he hears himself saying, as if he’s having an out of body experience, surprised he tells him so easily. So much for things James can’t get. But it feels good, being a person, rather than a letter. “My name is Jonathan Boothroyd.”

James tries out the name. “Jonathan. I like that. Jonathan. John. Jay...Johnnie?”

Q recoils and shudders at the use of the common name shortenings. “Jonathan. Only Jonathan. I can’t abide anything else.”

“I like that. _Jonathan_.” James rolls the name around on his tongue again, his voice deep and rich. Q shudders again, this time in response to how much he likes to hear James say it. But he says something else instead.

“You should probably call me Q.”

“I’ll call you anything you want.”

Q’s posture relaxes slightly at James’s breezy agreement, yet still he remains flat against the tree, keeping his distance as best he can from James. But James is unrelenting, his voice softening, and he’s moving closer, incrementally. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Q? Like in Zagreb.” James's eyes then dip down, focus on Q’s lips. “Like in Chicago.”

 _Oh, God_ , now they’re talking about Chicago. Actually talking about it. Q has replayed Chicago in his mind over and over, night after night. He’s just begun to put himself back together after that shattering, unexpected experience and now, listening to James, he’s unraveling all over again. His knees are suddenly weak and shaky. James presses on, his voice seductive, low and soft.

“You’re a damn good kisser, Q, you know that?”

Q’s back instantly stiffens, piqued despite his arousal. “I’m not inexperienced, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Easy now,” James says, soothingly. “That’s not what I meant, I never assumed that. My compliments only.”

James shifts again, his knee now pressing against the inside of Q’s thigh, hands still on either side of his head, boxing him in.

“Have you thought about Chicago?” James whispers, close to his ear. “I have. A lot. You’re either the best damn actor I’ve ever met, or this could be the beginning of something ...extraordinary. Don’t you want to find out?”

Q sucks in a deep and shuddering breath. _Fuck oh fuck oh fuck yes oh fuck oh fuck_ ….but yet once again, he says something else.

“It’s not a question of want," Q says, his voice quiet and uneven. _Liar_.

“Don’t you like me?” James pouts.

“It’s not a question of like.” _But, fuck yes, I like you_. Q’s glance slips away. There’s no doubt he’s desperate for James Bond; but that is probably a very, very unwise thing to feel. And now that James is telling him straight up he’s interested, he feels suddenly more conflicted than ever. In all the times he’s fantasized about wanting him, he never once, _not once_ , thought he could actually have him. This could only lead nowhere good; probably straight to the dole, then pass directly from there to a broken heart.

Q licks his lips, incredibly nervous, pulls his glance back to James. “I like my job, too. I’m not sure...you know... this would be...wise. Tanner’s already out to get me. MI6 is a good opportunity for me, I’m trying to make a go of things, you know?...”

“Well, you’re going to make a lot of enemies in this job, that’s the bloody truth. Don’t let him get to you. You’re smarter than him. If he gives you any trouble, can’t you just sell his house online or something? Hack in and empty his bank accounts?”

“I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

“Oh, not _anymore_ ,” James says, intrigued. “Implying you have before. The plot thickens.”

Q says nothing, neither confirms nor denies James’s suspicions about his questionable past that he has just so carelessly leaked to him. He hopes he’s never interrogated by James.

James presses on, undeterred, barely acknowledging the fact that Q is trying to turn him down. “I thought you said you liked mixing business with pleasure.”

“That’s not what I meant! It’s not always all about sex,” he blurts.

Q can’t believe he’s actually saying that; it doesn’t even sound convincing to himself. Of course it’s about sex, every word he exchanges with James Bond is absolutely dripping with it.

James only smiles cockily, completely nonplussed. “Isn’t it? That's not what my years with MI6 have taught me. Sex is the biggest motivator there is.”

As much as he wants him, Q knows he’s just not ready for this, has never foreseen this moment actually happening.

“Maybe you just need a friend. I think you must be lonely." Q groans inwardly at his own words. _Lame. So lame_.

“Maybe _you_ just need a lover,” James shoots back, finally losing his cool. “I think you must be horny.”

Q’s back stiffens again, James seeing too much, scratching at a sore spot maybe not entirely as healed as he’d thought. Q scowls. “My lovers usually end up gone.”

“My friends usually end up _dead_ ,” James replies without missing a beat. A mask slides over his face again. “I don’t go in for that much anymore.”

“No ties, then? Just pleasure?”

“There are worse ways to live.” James’s knee pulls away, relenting. “You’ve been hurt. You think I’ll end up hurting you.”

“Obviously, yes, I’ve been hurt before,” Q says crossly. “Or I'd be living happily in a cottage with a white picket fence instead of pulling all nighters for MI6. Christ, hasn't everybody? Haven’t _you_?”

Q knows he has. He knows a little of James’s past; much of that is common knowledge around the office. James doesn't answer, just continues to study him mercilessly. They stare at each each in silence.

Q offers nothing more about his own past. Nobody knows much about him at MI6, he plays it all close to the sleeve. He’s had lovers, of course. The first few had been quick and fumbling teenage gropes. Others that followed at University or in the military had been short-term but passionate and intense and extremely educational, pushing his boundaries of what he knew he could like or want or do. He wants and likes quite a lot.

The last two had been long-term, several years each; one relationship had withered away like a dying leaf on a vine, painless when they finally detached from one another. The last had ended in a horrible crash and burn of rage and pain and jealousy, he the unsuspecting lover of a man he never knew was cheating, not until the very end.

He’s not interested in a casual fling, not anymore. He’s tired of the drama and the heartaches. He just wants to focus on his work, or so he tells himself. But James is making that very, very difficult.

The watch on Q’s wrist beeps, indicating his break is over. He lets out his breath, not even having realized how pent up it had been, somewhere between relieved and disappointed at the interruption. “We’ve got that meeting in 30 minutes.”

James lets his hands drop away from the tree, takes a step back, looks at him speculatively. “You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you? But all right, Q. Have it your way. We can be... _friends_.”

Q can literally hear the quotation marks around the word “friends,” the way James drawls it. James begins to slowly back away, a sly glint to his eyes, speaking as he goes. “I’ll see you back at HQ.”

And then he turns on his heel and pushes off, running at a slow jog in the direction of MI6.

***

Thirty minutes later, the conference room begins to fill with up with Gareth Mallory, Bill Tanner, and James. Q is setting up the projector to review the new intelligence information he’d stayed up all night to prepare, hastily brushes a lock of damp hair out of his eyes from the shower he has literally just got out of.

He shoots an uneasy glance at James, wondering where this leaves them. Will James be cool to him again, act like he barely notices him like when he had just started at MI6; before Zagreb, before Chicago.

Tanner pulls out a chair, goes to sit down, but not before he levels a condescending look at Q as he smoothes down the lapels of his own sharply tailored suit.

“Jesus, Q. You always look like you just got out of bed.”

“I see no problem with that,” James says breezily, begins to pull out his own chair.

“Maybe I can give you my tailor’s number. That baggy suit does nothing for you. It’s unprofessional,” Tanner harps on.

Surprised and embarrassed, Q looks down at himself. He does tend to wear some things oversized; some a style choice, some out of sheer distraction. He never really thinks about it when his days are so busy.

James stares at Tanner pointedly and then speaks. “Sometimes the man with the biggest balls in the room needs a suit with a little extra room to accommodate for that.” 

The reminder of the Zagreb mission lies heavily in the air, unspoken. Then James calmly takes his seat and starts to leaf nonchalantly through the file before him on the table.

“Watch it, Bond,” Tanner snarls, starts to get up from his chair again.

“ _Boys_.” Mallory barks. “That’s enough. Now let’s get started.”

Tanner sits down again, fuming.

Q looks around at the group, speechless. Then James catches Q’s eye. And _winks_. Goes right back to reading the file. Cool as ever.

Q’s heart swells. He quickly looks down to fiddle with the keyboard, unable to hide his smile.

Had he said friends? What a ridiculous thing to say. Utterly ridiculous.

No, wait. Sensible. Completely sensible, given the circumstances.

_Shit. He is so fucked._


	5. April - London

Moneypenny opens the door to her flat, motions Q in with her hand as she chats on the phone.

“I’m all packed and ready to go. Come on up.”

She switches off the phone, tosses it on a table near the door.

“Thank god!” she exclaims. “He’s got the van. This is going to go so much faster than I thought.”

Q has come over to help her move, giving in to her pleas for help earlier in the day.

“Who? Who's got a van? Who’s coming up?”

“Bond.”

Q blinks. “Bond? James Bond? 007 is coming over to help you move?”

“Yeah, and he’s coming with one of the extra surveillance vans.”

“You must be joking."

She had to be talking about a Q Branch van.

“Nope.”

Q stands by the door with hands on hips, lips pursed, when James comes sailing in confidently, dressed down in a form fitting pair of dark jeans, black military boots, and a charcoal grey cashmere sweater under his black leather jacket, sweater stretched perfectly tight across his pecs. Devastating. Desire surges through him, he tries to ignore it. Q thinks about his own baggy jeans and striped sweater and converse sneakers.

“Evening, Q.” James tosses the keys in his hand a few times before pocketing them, just to show them off. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

It doesn’t take long for the three of them to carry the boxes down to the van. Q tries not to stare at James’s arse while he leans over or flexes his arm muscles as he picks up a heavy box.

Moneypenny slams the van's back door on the final load. “Well, I won’t be sorry to see the backside of this place. Or my landlord. He won’t give me back my security deposit! Says he’s keeping it for damages. But you saw it yourselves, those bullet holes were patched up perfectly. I think he's trying to blackmail me! Says he'll be quiet about it but he's keeping the deposit.”

Q can only imagine the kinds of things that go on in Eve Moneypenny's flat. Bulletholes don't seem out of place.

“I don’t think he knows who he’s dealing with,” James muses. “Where does he live?”

“Right next door.”

“You mean that flat with the guy who was fucking someone so incredibly loudly?”

They’d all heard it.

“Yeah. I won’t miss that, either.” Then her eyes narrow, considering. “That’s not his wife, she’s out of town.”

Q and James look at each other, up at the building, at the van. Then look back at each other, then at Moneypenny.

“This sounds like a job for MI6.” James says. “More MI5 territory, really, but in a pinch…”

“It would, of course, be a completely irresponsible use of government property,” Moneypenny says, trying to keep a straight face.

“Yes, a terrible misuse. Reprehensible, really,” James agrees, then looks at Q again. “It’s your call.”

Q’s palms are practically itching with the need to inflict social justice in the way he knows best.

_Fuck it._

So much for not doing this type of thing anymore.

“Let the expert handle this one, kids,” Q says, archly. “I practically own that shit, I invented most of it. How do you think I ended up here, anyway? By the time I was 18, I’d hacked MI6 so many times they either had to recruit me or kill me.”

He shoves them aside, opening the doors to the van again. From the corner of his eye he sees Moneypenny look from him to James, then she murmurs, “He just keeps getting hotter and hotter, doesn’t he?”

Q flushes again, glad his face is in the van. James chooses not to answer that question, and just says, “Then let’s get to it.”

Less than ten minutes later, James is carefully feeding a small remote camera on a cable through a new hole in the previously bullet-ridden wall, and Q is holding a drill, watching the video feed appear on the laptop screen. Now completely in his element, a carefree smile covers Q's face. A rather graphic black and white image of the landlord screwing his girlfriend comes into view.

“Yes, perfect angle,” Q whispers. “Thank god they're still at it. We’ll let that run a few minutes. Then we’ll send him a copy with our demands. You’ll get your money back, you can be sure of that.”

She claps her hands together gleefully, but quietly, so as not to give them away. She first grabs James and kisses him on the lips, then grabs Q and kisses him, too. James turns to Q and for a second Q thinks he might do the same. The feel of Moneypenny’s lips are still on his, the sounds on the videocam are rather erotic. Q feels a heat rise through him, almost ready for it; but James doesn’t move towards him.

“Nice work, Q,” James simply says. “Somehow I knew you were just the man for the job.”

“Well, you're not the only one handy with a drill,” Q quips, enjoying himself; he almost forgets to be nervous around James, forgets he shouldn’t flirt with him.

James laughs, but his tone grows sultry. "You’re such a mouthy little tart under all those frumpy sweaters.”

“And you're actually kind of a nerd under all that Italian gigolo cashmere,” Q teases back.

James is quiet as he looks at him. They are standing close, almost shoulder to shoulder. Q finds himself pinned by those eyes again, searing into him. Nobody speaks for a while, and Q even forgets they aren't alone.

“I like it when you’re like this,” James finally says. “I like it when you look at me like that."

Q remains silent, surprised. The sound of the couple moaning on tape and the actual loud banging of the landlord’s headboard against the wall fills the room.

Moneypenny looks from one to the other of them, her eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Jesus.” She squeezes her way in between them, pushing them apart. “You could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife. Break it up, fellas. Unless, that is, I can get in on it...” She looks hopefully back and forth between them again. “I’d be up for that…you know, the three of us, if you are...no?..."

A beat of silence passes, then James laughs again. “You wish.”

“I do. I really do.” She tilts her head as she looks at them again, one to either side of her; Q holding a drill, James with his fingers still wrapped around the cable of the camera scope. "Shit, look at the two of you. You, all tough and blonde and brawny, and you, all smart and dark and willowy.” She sighs wistfully. “I’ll bet you fit together perfectly.”

_Bang..bang...bang..._

The drill slips from Q’s suddenly clumsy hands, but he manages to catch it in time. Even James seems briefly flustered for a response.

She looks at Q accusingly. “I blame you for this, you know, James’s complete disregard for my sexual wellbeing. Before you came along, I had at least a 50% chance with him. But now, he’s so gaga for you he can’t spare a glance for anyone else.”

Q sidles a sideways look at James, but neither says anything. Q blushes yet again; he really hasn’t been aware their little drama is so obvious to anyone else.

James finally shakes his head, smiles. He leans down and gently kisses her on the cheek. “You’re still my best girl, Moneypenny.” Then he looks over at Q. “And Q here, well...we’re just friends, you see.”

She snorts in a disbelieving laughter. “Whatever you say.”

James holds his glance for another few seconds, then looks away without any further comment.

An hour later, the video surveillance is finished, and everything has been moved from one place to the other. In the parking lot, finished with the job, James and Q stand next to the van.

“So,” James says. “This was...what's the word I’m looking for…”

“Fun?” Q supplies.

“Yeah, I guess that’s one word for it.” James jingles the keys in his hands. “Well, that actually was kind of fun. So, is that what you usually do with your friends?”

Q shrugs. It’s not like he has a lot of friends, but he has a few, mostly casual acquaintances with similar interests. “Sure, I do things like that. Other things, too. I have a gamers club on Tuesday nights. We sit around and play video games, strategize about it, drink beer, stuff like that. That is, when I’m not in Morocco or Zagreb or something. And sometimes, we get together and extort money from a slumlord with the illegal use of multimillion dollar government equipment. So, yeah, just the usual.”

James looks away, tries to hide a smile. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

Q sighs, suddenly sad the evening is coming to an end. “Well. Regardless of whatever weird motive you have for doing this, she needed the help. It was nice.”

“I’m happy you think so. That’s what friends do, right?” His eyes are darker, more serious. Smoldering, Q thinks. Or maybe that is just his imagination. “Kind of right up the alley for a certain Jonathan Boothroyd I know. I did a little research.”

“Oh?” Q says, studying his shoes with interest. Outwardly nonchalant, inwardly panicking, his mind sorting through all the things James might have found under that name, kicking himself for having handed it over so easily.

“ _Major_ Boothroyd, I should say."

“To be honest, it was mostly an honorary title. They needed to move me up the ranks so I could head the labs.”

“Hmmm,” James muses. “Could have fooled me, you seemed pretty handy in Zagreb.”

“I try to pull my weight.” Q’s eyes roam over James’s broad chest, muscled arms, probably unable to hide his admiration; almost reaches out to touch a bicep, his fingers actually twitching. “I’ll bet _you_ earned every stripe, though...” Q flushes again, aware his voice might have sounded a little dreamy just then. He tries to sound more official. “You were a Commander. You top me."

For a few seconds, James just looks at him with an eyebrow raised, barely able to keep a straight face.

Q flushes even more at his unfortunately suggestive choice of words. "Not that any of that military rank matters at MI6,” he finishes quickly.

James smiles knowingly, all too aware of his effect on him. Surprisingly, he lets the remarks go and digs his phone out of his pocket, flips a thumb over the screen, pulls up some information. “So, back to you. Quite an extensive juvenile record you’ve got. Worse than mine, if that’s even possible. Let’s see here. Hmmm, hacking. Already guessed that. What else do we have here? Multiple runaway attempts. Burglary. Trespassing.” James raises his eyebrows yet again, looks back at Q. “Suspected arson?”

Oh, shit. “That was never proven,” Q says primly.

“You are a little badass, aren’t you?” James murmurs appreciatively. He slides his phone into his back jeans pocket. “Well. I’ve got to go, got an early flight tomorrow."

He puts his hand on the door handle of the van, starts to slip the keys in. “Thanks to Q Branch for the van. Figured you wouldn’t mind us borrowing it.”

“How did you even get that out, anyway?” Q asks, a little cross about James having rummaged through his past, about taking out the van without asking; cross with himself for wanting him so much and letting him get away with anything.

“Your signature is remarkably easy to forge. I mean, it's just a ‘Q’. You should really think about changing that.”

“Really, I shouldn't have to, no one else would even dare," Q shoots back. But then he just shakes his head, and a smile quirks on his lips despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you look adorable in that sweater, by the way. Kind of like a hispter grandpa. Hot as hell. I've been half hard all night just looking at you."

Q feels his face flame, feels desire stir in the pit of his stomach, more than half hard himself. “Friends don’t say things like that.”

“Oh, don't they? Damn. So close to getting this “friends” thing right, wasn’t I?”

And with that, James gets in the van, Q's own fucking Q Branch van, and drives away, not even offering him a ride home. Q walks the short distance to the tube station, lost in thought. Confused. Incredibly horny. Oddly bereft. He’d fully expected to have to avoid James’s advances in the parking lot, had been strategizing on how not to give into those lips and eyes in the close quarters of the van's front seats.

James Bond has a lot to answer for, Q fumes as he walks briskly, for all the desperate solitary wanking he’s done, often in entirely inappropriate places, after practically every conversation they’d ever had. Clearly on the agenda for tonight as well.

He’s suddenly aware of just how much he’s been fantasizing about him, surprised by his own almost offended disappointment at the evening's ordinary ending.

And then it hits him. This is a classic case of reverse psychology; James Bond is playing hard to get.

_And against his better judgment, it’s working._


	6. May - Sarajevo

“Do it!”

Q’s fingers shake over the contents of the first aid kid strewn out before him on top of the ancient chenille quilt. James sits perched at the foot of the bed in the shabby _pension_ he's been staying at in Sarajevo as part of his cover, shirtless, pajama pants slung low around his hips. His feet are bare. Q kneels behind him on the bed, the mattress suddenly bouncing as he pulls back in alarm.

“No! I can’t…”

“I’d do it myself but I can’t bloody well reach it! Now grab the damn needle and thread and stitch it up.”

Q’s face blanches. Just an hour ago he’d been sitting down to breakfast at the elegant Hotel Europe. The last he’d known, 007’s mission in Sarajevo had been uneventful. And most importantly, finished. Newspaper in hand, Q had been looking forward to the buttery croissant and small plate of cucumbers and tomatoes in front of him, could smell the spicy sweet aroma of his steaming hot Earl Grey tea. Which, consequently, he’d never got to enjoy since he’d been so rudely interrupted by James’s call, which had been terse and demanding and completely devoid of any pertinent information about stitching up wounds.

And now he’s here, aghast, staring at James’s beautiful, muscled back, marred by an unsightly three inch gash that’s seeping blood rather copiously. He’s never been good with blood.

“Christ, why did you call for me? You need a doctor, not tech support!”

Q starts to move away again.

“No. No doctors.” Faster than he could have imagined, James’s hand shoots out and he catches Q by the wrist even though Q is behind him, like he has eyes in the back of his head. “Don’t go. I need you, Q. You can do this. You _can_. You have the hands of a surgeon, or an artist. I’ve seen you defuse a bomb, for god’s sake. I’m much less delicate work than that.”

Q feels faint. The hot pressure of the hand around his wrist, the naked back in front of him, the sight of blood, the lack of breakfast… Even as he feels repelled by the blood, his attraction to James is pulling him closer, fascinated by that expanse of flesh, entrapped by the unguarded sound of need he’d heard in James’s voice when he’d asked him for help, cleaved to him by a strong hand around his narrow wrist. _Fuck_ , he wishes he could defuse himself, wishes there was a simple off switch for this ticking time bomb of desire inside.

Resigned, he settles back into his kneeling position behind him. “How did this even happen?”

“Don’t ask,” James mumbles. James slowly lets go of his wrist, assured now that Q isn't going to leave. “There’s always something around the corner just waiting to kill you.”

Q reaches out and lays his fingertips against the skin above the cut, tentatively exploring the area around it. James shudders each time his fingers probe; Q’s hands tremble in return.

“Sorry,” Q mumbles.

“Just… get it over with.”

Q takes a deep breath, composes himself as best he can. Tells himself to just think of this magnificent body in front of him like a piece of delicate hardware that needs to be rewired, a piece of highly sophisticated machinery in for repairs. He wills himself to ignore the defined muscles that ripple each time he touches him. Tries not to focus on the freshly healed wounds from where Moneypenny had shot him, or on the other various scars from who knows where, or when, or whom, the hard earned roadmap of a life. Q would like to follow every trail. With his tongue. Instead, he wills himself to deny the burning need to press his lips to each and every mark. But it’s hard, so hard; he feels each touch gives him away.

Q picks up the surgical needle and threads it, takes several more deep breaths, his fingers finally still. He places his free hand flat on James’s back just above the cut, to anchor him, let him know it’s coming.

“Ok. Steady on.”

And then he pierces the flesh, draws the thread through, pulls, closes the sides together. There's no local anesthesia, he winces in empathy each time he makes a stitch. Pierce, pull, pierce, pull, James shuddering with each pass of the needle until it’s finally done, never uttering a word, his lips clamping together in a grimace.

Q applies antiseptic, then sits back on his heels and inspects his work, critically eyes each precise loop of the thread to make sure that the edges are tight and symmetrical for optimal healing without scarring. Lastly, he applies a large sterile bandage and gives him a powerful painkiller which James tosses into his mouth and swallows whole and dry.

“Not bad work, if I say so myself,” Q declares, feigning confidence he doesn’t feel. “All done.”

His patient only grunts in reply. James leans over and collapses on the bed, lying on his side that’s not hurt, pulls his bare feet up off the floor and curls into a quasi-fetal position.

“I feel like shit,” James finally mumbles, closing his eyes, and instantly falls asleep.

Q watches him for a few minutes, mesmerized by how James's features slowly relax as he falls deeper into sleep, his face suddenly younger by years. Watches those lips lose their grimace and soften; can hardly believe he actually knows what they feel like, what they taste like. Watches how his chest, lightly covered with tawny hair, rises and falls evenly in slumber.

James has not indicated what he wants next. Maybe Q is free to go; he’s not sure what to do. But he can’t leave him, not yet. Not until James wakes up again and Q knows that he is ok. So he quietly picks up the medical supplies and puts them away. Then he takes the side of the chenille quilt that James is not lying on and flips it over him, tenderly tucking it around him as best he can, paying particular attention to the large bare feet hanging over the edge of the short, sagging bed.

He moves his parka out of a threadbare chair at the side of the bed and takes a book out of his messenger bag. He’d just thrown his things down in a hurry when he came into the hotel room, following a trail of bloody hotel towels to the bed in increasing alarm, out of breath from running through the _Bascarsija_ old town area and then up four flights of stairs. At the time he imagined he’d been needed to set up a security camera or break a code or reprogram the micro-dermal sensor gun he’d made for James; he hasn’t imagined _this_.

He settles back into the chair, props his black converse sneakers up on an equally threadbare and unstable ottoman, spreads the parka over his lap to guard against the damp spring chill of the room. He looks out the window at the beautiful, melancholy skyline; church bell towers and mosque minarets, orange tile roofs, dark wood balconies, a cemetery on a hillside lined with row after row of white pillar headstones like teeth bleached by the sun. It’s not long before his own eyes droop and the book slips from his hands and falls into his lap unnoticed, his glasses slipping down his nose.

He’s not sure how much time has passed before he wakes again and suddenly sits up in the chair, momentarily forgetting where he is; he hears the sound of a melodic voice from outside. He recognizes the sound now, sinks back again into the chair. Listening, his long fingers curl around the arms of the chair, entranced by the _muezzin’s_ beautiful singsong call to prayer, echoes reverberating against the mountains completely surrounding the city. He’s warm now from the coat and the golden rays of the afternoon sun slanting in through the windows.

He glances over at James, who’s lying on his side facing him, a hand under his cheek; James’s eyes are wide open, looking right at him. _Into_ him. He’s not sure how long James has been awake, watching him. When James Bond turns his full attention on you, it’s easy to feel like you’re the only other person in the whole world. Butterflies churn in his stomach. He tamps down his own desire, concern floods him.

James speaks to him then, his voice barely louder than the call to prayer outside.

"You're beautiful. Do you know that, Q?”

Q blinks in surprise. He’s not sure James knows what he’s saying. Q throws the parka off his legs, gets up to go over to him. He kneels down next to the side of the bed, level with James’s face just a foot away. He lays his hand across James’s forehead. It feels cool to the touch.

“Well, you haven’t got a fever. That’s good. You must have been dreaming.”

James sighs almost inaudibly, looks a little sad. “Whatever you say.”

Q reaches out, smiles tentatively, but what he really hears is Moneypenny in his head, sarcastically saying the same thing; _whatever you say_ , and he knows he can't even fool himself anymore. He smoothes a short strand of silky dark blonde hair off his forehead. “You’ll be alright, 007. I’m here.”

James makes a quiet sound of protest. “James. Please, for once, just call me James.”

With those eyes on him, the feel of his hair under his fingers, Q relents. “I’m here, James.”

James’s eyes float shut at the sound of his name. Q continues to kneel next to the bed, can’t stop staring at his face, his thumb absently stroking over the soft skin of James’s temple; wonders if it would be too much to run his lips over his forehead, too. He’s on the edge of a precipice, gravity pulling him down; he slides forward off the edge, he’s falling into space. His eyes now on a softly parted pair of lips, he's moving closer; his own mouth only inches away but he can already feel it in the air like electricity, vibrating, tingling, surely there are sparks igniting between them.

Suddenly there’s a knocking at the door and Q stops moving closer. James’s eyes open again, stare straight at him. If James is surprised to find him like this, his face nearly touching his, Q's head tilted and lips lined up with his own, he doesn't show it. Neither pull back, they just stay like that, close.

“James? James?” A voice is calling out his name in the short lulls between the now insistent pounding on the door.

“That’ll be Moneypenny. Impeccable timing, as usual.” A wistful smile ghosts across James’s face; Q can feel his breath fanning against his cheek. “She can’t stand it that I called you first, you know.”

Q smiles back; smoothes his fingertips, now trembling a little, over James’s cool forehead once more, memorizing the contours, reassuring himself again that all is well. His heart is hammering, his mind is buzzing, his breath is unsteady.

“Next time, feel free to call her first if you have another medical emergency.”

Q tries to make light, tries to divert those eyes that miss nothing. Q starts to get up, but again that hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“I’ll always call you first.” James looks at him intently, his grip increases in pressure. “ _Friend_.”

He says that softly, almost a challenge. And then he lets him go, and the hand slips back under the quilt.

Q turns away to hide the flush that burns across his face from their contact, the use of his own word parroted back to him, leaving him confused and wanting, again.

Q fumbles for his bag and coat. “I’ll go let her in.”

At the door he pauses, searching for words. This seems wrong, leaving him. But he’s not sure what else to do, what his role would be if he stayed. Afraid of what he might do if he stayed. “So, I’ll see you later, in London or wherever…”

“ _Inshallah_ ,” James answers quietly. _God willing_.

Q nods once, then opens the door and Moneypenny rushes in, immediately goes to James with barely a quick hello to Q, who exits quietly into the hallway.

At the landing of the stairs, Q catches sight of himself in a tarnished mirror in the dingy hallway. The hood of his parka is bunched around his head, the bulky coat hangs nearly to his knees. He stares at his pale skin that has seen more light from a screen than the sun; the dark messy curls that he always wears a little too long and can never really tame from simple neglect of remembering to get a haircut; the dark-rimmed glasses that mercifully hide the eyes that follow every move that James makes.

Awkward. Nerdish. Unremarkable. Nothing that could possibly be of any real interest to a man like James Bond.

And yet…

 _Beautiful_ , James had said, looking right at him while waking from a dream.

For a quick moment, looking at himself in that mirror, Q sees exactly what James sees. Green eyes drugged with desire, lips red and asking, dark curls floating over pale and flawless skin, a toned and slender body aching and trembling with need.

Q knows with sudden clarity he is still in motion. He’s gone over the cliff for good and he’s still falling, falling.

_Only one place to land; only one person who can catch him._


	7. June - Istanbul - Day

Q nervously adjusts his tie. Pulls at the sleeves of his black suit jacket, not that it needs adjustment; he just needs something to do with his hands. His foot taps against the ground and his dress shoes make a rapping sound, not like the silent sneakers or soft soled military style boots he often wears.

This time, he has made an effort. He’s meeting James prior to the mission and he doesn’t want James to see him schlepping around in his normal everyday cardigans and ripped jeans and nerdy t-shirts. He’d thought a lot about the back seat of a car in Zagreb, about a parking lot in London. Mulled over what was said in a hotel room in Sarajevo. Obsessed entirely too much about a kiss in a bar in Chicago.

So he’s wearing a new black suit, exquisitely tailored. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, really. All very unwise, probably. Playing with fire, obviously. Some things never change.

He’s chosen this location, an old and formal hotel in _Sultanahmet_ , the historic neighborhood of Istanbul. It’s mid afternoon and the outdoor seating area is already hazy and aromatic from the cigarettes of a dozen unrepentant smokers having a coffee or a drink. The cafe is resplendent in masculine dark woods and rich fabrics in golds and browns and creams; handsome, mysterious, a little bit forbidding; a whole lot like James.

His runs his hands over his hair, trimmed and combed and slicked back, smoothing it down. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke often. But today he really needs one.

A hand lands on his shoulder from behind him, and he jumps.

“I didn’t even recognize you at first,” James says, the hand sliding away as he comes around to pull out his own chair, then sits down. He’s dressed in a casual dove grey suit, sharp as always. “You look...bloody good. Better than that. What’s the occasion? All for me, I hope.” He smiles, all flirty charisma.

Q shrugs, tries to remain nonchalant. _Of course it’s for you._ He stalls for time to figure out how to do this. “Business. The usual.” He tries to sound cool. “It's a lot of work to fix a mission. It doesn’t just happen out of thin air.”

“Oh, I know. But you make it look so effortless, it’s easy to forget.”

Q tries to control the blush rising to his cheeks again. As a distraction he pushes the pack of cigarettes across the table to James, who takes one and lights it with a lighter he pulls from his pocket. Then Q takes one out and James leans across the table to light it first, his own cigarette clamped between his shapely lips, cupping a hand around Q’s long fingers holding the cigarette to his mouth, blocking the breeze, their fingers touching. Q tries to keep his hand from shaking. That brief contact has set his nerves jangling.

James leans back in his chair again, relaxes with his legs stretched out, crosses one over the other. His grounded foot slides forward under the table, stopping when it comes up against Q’s. Q doesn’t move away, leaves his foot where it is, their feet resting side by side, touching lengthwise.

James takes a long drag on his cigarette, lazily blows out. His eyes roam over Q through the screen of smoke. He taps some ash off into a crystal ashtray. Q takes a long drag, too, stares back at him for as long as he dares, but can’t hold the gaze.

Q sets his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and reaches into his ever present messenger bag that he has looped over the back of his chair, pulls out an envelope. “Here are the things you’ll be needing.”

James sighs. “Always the professional, aren’t you?” He takes the envelope, fingertips brushing again, then tucks it into his suit jacket pocket without even opening it, as usual. He suddenly uncrosses his legs and leans forward.

“Do you ever feel like a holiday? Like, just taking a few days off? Even just a few hours?”

Q shrugs, intrigued where this is going. “Well, sure.”

“There’s an excellent hamam just around the corner. Very relaxing. You should try it.”

Q searches his brain for the translation, finds it. “A Turkish bath? I…I’ve never been. I would have no idea what to do.”

James takes another drag. "I could show you.”

It suddenly feels hot outside. Q reaches up, loosens his tie a little. Clears his throat. “The Turkish bath…with you?”

James nods. “It’s brilliant. You get naked, or almost. Then lay on a heated slab of marble, loosening up. These big men with really strong hands, and I mean really strong hands, scrub you down with sponges and soap and oils, then pour hot water over you, bucket after bucket to rinse you off. You can get a massage, a full body massage, if you want. And after that, after you’ve been stroked and oiled and manhandled to within an inch of your life, you can lay on that hot marble slab again to relax your sore muscles, as long as you want.” He takes another long drag, looks up at the smoke as it trails towards the sky, then back to Q again. “The place I know is very private."

The blood has drained from Q’s face, right down to other parts of his body that urgently need it more. He just sits there, transfixed, watching James watch him through that hazy screen of smoke. This time, Q does not look away.

_Fuck it._

He wants it. He wants him. He wants to see James naked, all of him. Wants to lie next to him, just the two of them. Wants… whatever else that might happen in a turkish bath.

“Ok,” Q says.

The reaction that simple response elicits in James is an almost comical doubletake. His cigarette stops in midair, halfway to his mouth.

“You’re serious,” James states, after a few seconds have passed.

“Perfectly.”

James stubs out his cigarette. The heavy foot against Q’s moves away as James stands up, then looks down at him, his face unreadable.

“Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

***

Q lays on his back on a slab of stone shaped like a hexagon in the middle of a large, round room, warmth soaking into him. Every surface is covered with grey marble, swirled with veins of pink or layered with decorative ceramic tiles, centuries old. The air is thick and hot and humid. Sweat rolls off of him.

He is staring up at a dome overhead with star shaped holes that let in the outdoor light, just enough to cast a rosy dim glow to the dark interior, crazy aware of James just two feet away. They are wearing nothing but thin towels wrapped sarong-style around their waists, wet and plastered to their skin.

Since it’s the middle of a weekday afternoon, there are just a few other clients in the hamam. Several other men are stretched out on the stone slab opposite of them or ensconced in alcoves, alone or in pairs, that line the exterior of the room.

The incredibly strong hands of a hairy flannel-wielding attendant wedged between his legs grip his left foot and wash it vigorously, holding it up in the air. He jumps as the hands then grab his left leg around his calf, jerk it upwards. The hands work their way up and all around with the flannel, followed by strong fingertips working lather into his skin, massaging. All the way up his inner thigh, hands now under the flap of the wet material.

James is on his back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed. The same treatment is happening to James; he seems completely relaxed, completely in his element. Q’s eyes wander, taking in every detail, feeling safe that James can't see how hungry he is to look at him. His chest is bare, scars from his bullet wounds visible, round and red and angry, still new and not yet faded and tempered. Water droplets bead and glisten on his lightly haired chest; Q can see that his hair grows thicker and darker as the trail spreads wider below his navel and disappears under the towel. Q wants to run his hand down that trail, follow it to the end, bury his hand in the thick pelt at the root of his cock. Feels his face flush as he thinks about it.

He wonders what it would be like to touch him wherever he wants, whenever he wants, for as long as he wants. He’s only had the opportunity to touch him once before, last month in Sarajevo, but that had been quick and efficient and medicinal, not like this. Nothing like this.

He can feel his heart beating fast. His nerves and excitement and physical stimulation are mixing together, he’s on edge, unsure of what comes next; he watches the attendant run his hands up James’s legs, watches James stretch practically like a cat as the fingers massage the muscles of his calves, his thighs.

It is an odd feeling to watch the same thing happening to someone else that is happening to you; difficult for a lust addled brain to remember who is touching whom, easy to imagine whatever you want if you shut your eyes.

Q’s left leg is set down. He feels a jerk as the attendant grabs his other leg and he’s pulled forward almost roughly, arse sliding easily across the wet stone; it isn’t hard at all to believe it might be James between his legs at the edge of the platform, pulling him towards him.

Hands brush against his cock, and Q jolts from the touch, hyper aware. The hands now withdrawing, landing just below his navel, the flannel sliding over his belly, up over his chest. Q watches the hands slide out from under James’s sarong, work their way up his tanned chest, over rosy, erect nipples, foamy water sliding off in rivulets.

Soon it starts all over again, the attendants donning a loofah mitt to scrub them down from head to toe. The loofah is rough, intense; Q feels raw from the inside out, verging on a pain that is pleasurable. But that’s not the end of the painful pleasure; the attendants now climb up onto the platform, kneel on the stone behind them. Oiled, ferocious hands are on their shoulders, digging into muscles, thumbs working out knots. Hands work their way down across flanks and thighs and calves. Q groans out loud at the delicious pressure against his muscles, practically panting, it’s all so intense; James looks over at him, intently watching him.

The attendants finish and finally leave them to lie back again on the warm stone platform to relax, every bit as sore as James had promised. Q feels exhilarated and relaxed at the same time, stimulated by the rough manhandling he's just received, bordering on an almost kinky sense of personal space violation that kind of turns him on. But it feels good, all so fucking good, every nerve ending tingling.

Now it’s just the two of them, no other clients on the slab at the moment. Q slowly becomes aware of the environment around them, can hear the rustling and soft voices of others in the alcoves; can feel the gaze of several solitary men sitting across the room, watching them, a frisson running down his spine realizing they are on display on this pedestal in the center of the room. Q turns to look at James, still on his back, his head cradled again by his crossed, muscular arms, now with his eyes shut. His face is quiet, relaxed, so incredibly handsome, his full lips slightly parted; it is no wonder the whole room is transfixed by him.

Q can’t stop staring, his mouth feels dry. James lazily uncrosses one arm without even opening an eye, as if he knows he’s being watched, and drapes it across the warm stone, bridging the gap between them. As if he has memorized the measurements of the distance between them, his wrist rests exactly on Q’s shoulder, his fingers just long enough to reach the nape of Q’s neck. He brushes across the sensitive skin just under the downturn of his damp curls. He continues to stroke, lightly, over and over. Q shivers at his touch, his breath speeds up.

Looking at James like that, lips full and parted, his chest softly rising and falling; the brushing of those fingers against his neck, the feel of hard hands and rough loofah still electric on his skin, an unspoken invitation in the air initiated by James's gentle touch; he can’t help it, can’t stop himself. He wants to touch him back.

He reaches across the narrow gulf between them, thrilled and almost frightened to allow himself this intimacy; he lightly touches James’s lips. James doesn’t move, apart from his lips opening a little more, his chest rising and falling a bit more quickly; he still doesn’t open his eyes. Emboldened, Q slowly traces the full circle of his mouth with the tip of his index finger, can feel the soft skin and whisper of quickening breath against the sensitive pad of his fingertip. Circles around again, this time with two fingers tracing the path of his desire.

Without warning James’s head tips forward and his mouth takes in the whole of his fingers, lips closing around them; Q gasps as James lightly sucks, tongue rolling over and around them, briefly releases his pressure then sucks them back in again, hot and wet and tight, several times slightly in and out, before he opens his mouth again to let them go, Q’s fingers slowly slipping out, wet and glistening.

Q is lost, so lost. He’s so hard under his thin towel, the silhouette of his arousal for all the hamam to see. Q sees that James has an equally huge erection, jutting upwards against his stomach, barely held down by the wet fabric, the tip visible over the top of the sarong. Q is surprised to see that he is cut; he himself is not. James’s fingers are still working against his neck, and Q shudders again; James opens his eyes, and their gazes lock.

He doesn’t even know who leans towards the other first, but the fingers at the back of his neck go from brushing to cupping and pulling him forward. All he knows is the feel of hard, wet muscle beneath his hands, the feel of that soft mouth finally on his; gentle, exploring, coaxing, his lower lip lightly caught, a gentle pull and release and caught again, the swipe of a tongue, teeth grazing. Hot stone, water pooling, shafts of light from the domed ceiling pouring down on them, eyes watching from dark corners.

A hand slides under the fabric of his sarong, a touch like a feather across his thigh, then his cock, blood humming through his head, a voice close to his ear, soft and sultry.

“Do you want this?”

“Oh, god, yes.”

Something like a low growl resonates from deep in James’s throat, a hot mouth slides over his neck.

“Let’s move somewhere more private.”

His head spinning, Q sits up on the edge of the stone platform next to James; they toss their heads back to shake the wet hair off their faces, look at each other as water streams down over their necks, their chests. James gets up and holds out a hand, James pulls him up. Fingers slipping past fingers, but not quite parting. James looks at an empty alcove across the room and indicates for Q to follow with a motion of his head, their fingertips just touching and holding as they cross the room, James leading the way. The unheated floor is contrastingly cool under his feet, his skin still so hot.

Inside the alcove, it is darker. James loosens the knot of Q’s sarong first, and then his, and both sarongs fall to the floor, draping over their feet. Cocks jut out, they look at each for a long moment with hungry eyes, not touching just yet. Finally lips meet lips again, hands slide over shoulders slick with oil, down backs, over flanks and buttocks, slowly exploring the feel and shape of the other.

James takes hold of one of Q's hands, guides it to his hard, erect cock. Q's long fingers encircle it, eagerly slide down, finally get to tangle in the thick thatch of hair. James takes hold of him in return, Q gasps in pleasure, James moves closer. They are pressed together, cocks sliding against each other, hands caught in between and moving up and down, stroking each other, increasingly urgent, legs brace against legs. Green eyes nearly level to blue, broad tanned chest to lithe and pale, slim hips to muscled thighs, only one inch in height separating them, James just that little bit taller.

It is an exquisite torture, being as still and quiet as they can; having to stifle gasps and moans, trying to keep their movements to a minimum, aware that it is dark but not entirely so, aware they have an audience who might be watching and listening. But all Q cares about is the feel of that hand on him, now moving faster and faster, the feel of his own hand on James’s cock, so hard and long, thick and hot. He can't stop now for anything, has to have this. His breath quickens, his back arches as a pressure builds and his cock begins to thrust urgently into the tight circle of James’s hand.

He is so ready for him. This entire ritual of the bath from start to finish has been nothing more than a prelude to this very moment. He lets out a stifled groan as he starts to come but James’s mouth clamps down on his, covering it completely and swallows his shout just as it breaks free; he feels the pressure of one of James's hands working his cock while the other is at the back of his head, pulling it forward, holding his lips tight against his mouth.

He is pulsing out in the tight space between their bodies, over the top of James’s hand, hips bucking into James. Q grips and strokes James harder and James comes, too, gloriously hot and wet and sticky against Q. Fuck, he loves how this feels, how James feels against him, wonders how he’s ever lived without this.

Bodies jerk, chests heave, mouth moves over mouth but stay connected, stealing breath from each other's lungs; tongue moves over tongue, silent words traded between them. Light headed, euphoric, no air, pure pleasure.

_In the warm, wet darkness it feels like drowning and he never wants it to end, never wants to come back up._


	8. June - Istanbul - Night

It’s dark when they exit the hamam, shoulders brushing, hands entangled, but both are quiet. They don't make it far before James grabs his arm, pulls him into a dark alleyway. James puts his own back to a wall and pulls Q into him, his eyes dark and moody, his lips crush down on his again.

James reaches between them and runs a hand over the length of the lapel of Q’s new black suit, thumb over the top of it, his fingertips tracing just under the double layer of it and the fabric of his shirt, brushing against Q’s smooth chest where his shirt is open several buttons down. Q has dispensed with the tie, stuffed in a pocket. James pulls his mouth away just enough to speak.

“Fuck, Q, what you can do to me." He's doing his low growl thing, Q shivers, loves it. "Do you even know how gorgeous you are?"

Q doesn't, really, but likes hearing James say it, anyway. He runs his hands up James's chest, locks his hands around his neck, thumbs softly stroking over the lightly stubbled cheekbones.

James runs his fingertips over the part of Q's collarbone visible under his open shirt. "Nobody in there could take their eyes off you. Christ, I'll never get enough of you. I’m half tempted to have you again right here in this alley.”

Q flushes, imaging what that would be like. “You certainly know some interesting neighborhoods."

“The world is my neighborhood, Q...”

James leans forward to kiss Q again; but before he makes contact, the expression on James’s face changes, goes from relaxed and teasing to serious and alert. Q is attuned to every micro expression he has; something is wrong. James’s eyes are trained on someone just over Q’s shoulder. Q's hands slide down from James's face to rest flat against his chest, Q can feel his heart beating fast.

Q’s voice is low. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure. I think I see someone I recognize. The man we tracked here. But what the devil is he doing here, now…oh, shit!”

A bullet slams into the wall right next to James, shards of brick flying. Their arms fly up to protect their faces from the debris.

Screams break out behind Q, people running on the street in all directions, scrambling to get out of the way. Q spins around just in time to see a man in a black leather jacket stride towards them with a gun straight out in front of him. He squeezes off another bullet, which miraculously goes wide.

“Q, get out of the way!” James yells, reaching for his pistol holstered at his side under his jacket, trying to push Q away with his arm.

But Q does not get out of the way. He sees the arm swing up again, aiming for James. In the span of just a single second, it all runs through his mind; he is aware he could be shot if he doesn't move, but he's unable to imagine living with himself if he does. Instead of moving away, he stands his ground, resisting James's push and in fact pushes back, pushing James to the side.

He remembers feeling no more than a breeze past his ear, felt chips of brick pelt them again; might have only felt a pinch on the bare skin of his neck, barely felt anything when he fell to the ground.

He remembers seeing James’s arm coming up over the top of him as if in slow motion as he lay flat on his back, the sleekly beautiful silhouette of the Walther PPK against the night sky, the flash of its muzzle as it unloads its magazine of bullets into the shooter’s heart.

He remembers when James scrambled down to the ground next to him, cradling his head in his lap.

He remembered James shaking his head back and forth as if in denial, rocking him gently, repeating the words over and over.

"No. No. Not for me. Not ever for me. No...god damn you, Q, not for me..."

_Shit, Q remembers thinking. I must be dying._

***

He claws his way to the surface of a dark, murky pond, gasping for breath. He realizes soon enough he isn’t in water, but still he is unable to move, sheets tight around him. His eyes slowly open, the light sears his eyes.

Through a haze, he sees James with his back to him. He is fully nude, magnificently, fully comfortable in his own skin. James is talking angrily into his phone and running a hand over the back of his head in consternation, the muscles of his back and thighs and buttocks rippling as he paces. Q can see the trace of that familiar red line of a scar on his lower back, nearly healed under the care of his own hand. Wonders if this is a dream, if the hamam was a dream; just a dream he's wanted so badly he just keeps dreaming it.

“Yes, M, _I’m_ fine. But what the hell kind of unit is this when the best person on the team is the IT guy?...I swear to god, if anything had happened to him….yes, I’m telling you, he tried to take a bullet for me.” James is in a rage. “What’s that? Calm down? You think I should calm down? Hell, yes, I’m pissed off. You better be glad you’re in London…”

Tired. He is tired and cold, so cold. He can’t make sense of any of it. He shivers. And then he slips away again.

***

When next he wakes, it is dark. But warm. So warm. Something warm is pressed against him, heat seeping into the bare skin down the length of his back to his legs. Something breezy flutters against the curls at the nape of his neck. He thinks he can hear soft breathing. His eyes slowly adjust to the gloom, and then he feels the weight of the arm draped over him before he sees it.

He would know the shape of that hand anywhere, that hand splayed against the white duvet over his hip. That is James’s hand. That is James’s distinct cologne in the air. Even the soft breath against his neck sounds like James. James against him, holding him close. James…

He slips into darkness again, unable to hold on as much as he tries…

***

His eyes slowly open. The room is light again. He is on his back, and the first thing he sees is the ceiling, but then he feels fingertips smooth hair back from his forehead in a soothing, repetitive motion. So...not dead, then. Possibly still a dream though, that hand feels so good.

“Good Morning, beautiful,” he hears a soft voice say. “Welcome back. You’re going to be all right. The doc says you’ll be fine. You got cut, right right above the ear, probably from some debris in the air. You bled like a stuck pig, scared the shit out of me, but you’re going to be fine.”

Q turns his head, sees James lying outstretched on his side next to him with his head propped up with one hand, ankles crossed one over the other, the other hand smoothing over his forehead. Now clothed again, which vaguely disappoints Q, even in his half-conscious state, although he looks fabulous in his sharp, dark suit.

Q manages to part his lips, finds his voice. Reaches up and feels a bandage. It feels like his head's splitting open. “What happened?”

“You probably saved my life, Q.” The fingertips move from his forehead, brush gently across his cheek. “Again.”

Q tries to remember what happened. “Someone tried to shoot you. Did he miss?"

James snorts. “He didn't miss. You shoved me out of the way.”

Oh yeah, that. “I’m glad you’re ok.”

“Don't ever do that again. Didn’t I tell you never to do that again?”

Q blinks. "Probably." And then he realizes what has happened, recognizing his own symptoms, remembering the pinch on his neck. He groans. “Oh, you _prick_. You dosed me with your watch. You dosed me with my own invention. Jesus, you’re not supposed to use that stuff on _me_.”

James smiles then, just a little. "Well, you wouldn’t get out of the way.”

“Oh, god. Shit, it worked. Maybe _too_ well.”

“I used the gun you gave me, too,” James says, grim now. “There’s only one place I outrank you and that’s in the field. On my watch, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you, even from yourself. I don’t like you putting yourself in danger for me.”

“Nobody said you had to like it," Q says grumpily, starts to float away again, still muddled. “Where am I, anyway?"

“My hotel room.”

James’s hotel room. James’s bed. And he is naked under the sheets in James's bed. Maybe he is dead after all, this has to be heaven. He is just going to go with it.

Q sighs, exhausted again. “I feel like shit,” he says, miserably.

James smiles again, this time a little guiltily. “Sorry.”

“You should be.” Q sighs. “Can I just stay here awhile? I’m so tired.” He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want James to leave, just wants to stay here forever.

“As long as you want. Let me look after you, for once. I’ll stay as long as I can.” James then reaches out again, traces his fingertips through Q’s hair again, staring down at him. Then he leans down, kisses him gently. “I’d do it all again, to be with you like that. Minus the shooting and the drugging, of course.”

“Very funny,” Q quips, weakly. Q’s eyes began to droop shut again, lulled by the repetitive stroking through his hair. “I thought I was dying. But at least I would have died happy, after what we did...”

James presses closer to him, leans down to kiss him again, this time longer, deeper, then finally pulls away, still looking down at him.

“Do you know you have the most ridiculously long eyelashes?" James finally murmurs. “Makes a man want to kiss them shut at night.”

Q’s breath catches in his chest. He wants to say something, anything. But as it is, he is so tired, isn’t even sure this is real, seems too good to be true. He feels sleep begin to overtake him again. Afraid of the coming darkness and leaving James, he reaches for James’s hand and holds it tight over his heart, James’s fingers splayed against his bare skin.

_And in his last few moments of wakefulness, he feels lips press slowly, gently against his eyelids; first one, and then the other._


	9. July - London

Q knows the minute James walks into the Main Control Room. He can feel it in the air; a subtle change in the composition of molecules, a tingle of electricity across his skin, a more than subtle change in the body language of the others in the room as they react out of fear or respect or attraction, or all of the above.

James stops about three feet behind him, having just returned from a long mission. Q does not turn around, keeps his eyes on the big screen on the wall in front of him. On his own laptop screen, Q can see James's reflection standing there, legs planted far apart as usual, arms behind his back with hands locked, completely still. He’s wearing a dark grey suit. What Q really sees, though, is James naked; hot and wet and sweaty, in a hamam a thousand miles away. His hand begins to shake just a little. He can literally feel James’s gaze on the back of his neck, almost like a physical touch.

It’s the first time he’s seen him since they were in Istanbul a few weeks ago. They did not text or call or email; neither was really the type. And further, what would they have said; things had not exactly been defined in the chaos of the near shooting. James had had to leave, work was waiting elsewhere. Q had hoped that James would find him, when he could.

And now he just has. Q feels a shiver run through him, so aware of his presence just feet away.

On screen, they are just wrapping up a job. Tanner and another 00 are in the field. This time in London, not so very far away. They’d needed backup to crack into The Shard. Pathetically easy to overcome their security protocols.

“Thanks for the assist, Q,” the other 00 says. “I believe we’re all wrapped up here.”

“Certainly,” Q answers. The screen goes blank, and Q takes off his headset. Heat is spreading at the back of his neck, and pooling everywhere else. He is aware of most of the room watching James out of the corner of their eyes; he can’t blame them, a 00 in person is always a bit awe-inspiring to the regular staff. Especially one that looks as good as James Bond.

Q tries to keep his cool, but his hammering heart would give him away if James could feel it right now. He certainly can’t fling himself into James’s arms on the job, much as he might want to. Maybe not even off the job, he’s not quite sure where they stand after Istanbul. Q finally turns around, finds James looking directly at him. James doesn’t speak, but his body language says it all; now he’s moved right up into Q’s personal space. But he doesn’t move forward any more, stands still again with feet spread and hands behind his back.

Q is caught off guard for just a second, momentarily stunned by the blue of those eyes. James is so much closer than he expected. Q takes a deep breath, shakes a curl off his forehead; squares his shoulders authoritatively, meets that gaze directly. Hopes his “Head of Q Branch” tone will sound suitably indifferent and haughty to the rest of the room. Knows that James will see right through him. Still, he can’t help having a little go at him, not while he still has the upper hand.

“007. Welcome back.”

James tips his head slightly in acknowledgement. “It’s good to be back.”

“Glad you stopped by. I’d like to see you in my office. I believe you are equipped with a highly responsive apparatus that I will need to check manually.”

James lets a beat of silence pass, holds his gaze. “Indeed I am.”

Q smiles just slightly, feels rash, maybe just a little giddy at seeing him again. His eyes lower incrementally, linger at the front of those grey trousers, then come back up to meet James’s again. “Your dermally-activated _widget_ may need particular attention. I don’t believe I’ve serviced it for a few weeks.”

James slightly raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirks. “Indeed you have not.”

“I can take care of that for you right away, if you have a moment.”

“After you, Quartermaster.” James stands slightly to the side, sweeps a hand out in front of him to indicate the way.

Q strides past him and James falls into step behind him.

In the empty hallway, James lengthens his stride to catch up to him. His hand curls around Q’s upper arm, nearly wrapping around its slenderness encased in a navy blue cardigan sleeve, slows him down as he leans over his shoulder.

“So _naughty_ ,” James teases in a whisper against his ear. “Missed that. Missed _you_.”

Q’s breath quickens. But they are both aware of the security cameras in the hall. James’s hand slowly drops away and they fall in step side by side, shoulders just brushing, quiet again.

Q shuts the door behind them once they are in the office. Q takes a few steps in and stands behind his chair, his hands gripping the back of it, needing its protection for just a moment more as he pulls himself together. James is close, just on the other side of the chair, but his hands are still locked behind his back in that maddeningly casual stance. There is absolutely nothing casual about James’s predatory gaze raking over him, though. Q feels desire flare in the pit of his stomach.

“So,” James finally says, nonchalantly, his eyes moving away and subtly roaming around the room looking for where a camera might be. “I’ve always wondered. Is your office currently monitored as well?”

“Yes." Q's eyes flick towards a corner of the room, indicating the location of the camera. "But I can override it, if I have advance notice. I control all monitoring in the building. As an interesting side note, there is one place in this building more secure than almost anywhere else. I designed it myself. The equipment room over there doubles as a safe room. Reinforced steel and concrete, bulletproof, practically bomb proof. It’s not currently monitored.” Q pauses for dramatic effect. “And it’s completely sound proof.”

James’s mouth opens slightly, but he says nothing, just raises his eyebrows again with a questioning, impatient look. Q feels unhinged by the hungry look in James’s eyes. He wants him, wants him right now.

“About that equipment, shall I check it now? I want to be sure you’ve brought it back to me without any damage.”

“I think you should do that immediately.”

“As it turns out, we’ll need to go to the equipment room for that. Right this way.”

Q walks unsteadily to the door, punches in a code. Q opens it for James and he follows him in. It closes behind them and within seconds Q finds himself pressed against James, backed into the door. James grabs his wrists, holds them down by his sides, immobilizing him.

“I can’t wait a second more,” James practically growls. His lips are on his, relentless. Q lets his head fall back against the door, melts under his touch, blood humming with desire. James doesn’t let go of Q’s wrists as he moves from Q's lips to his neck, his earlobe, tugs it gently with his teeth, laves it with his tongue. Q shudders violently, it’s a sensitive spot. James notices this and works that spot over and over again until his breathing is wracked, he’s gasping and moaning. James likes hearing him, but pulls away a little.

“Fuck, I loved watching you in there. Loved watching you bossing everyone around. Bossing me around…it does things to me.” He is speaking so close his mouth is brushing his earlobe as he speaks. He lets go of Q’s wrists, places his hands over Q’s hips, slides them around to grab his arse.

Q feels bold, able to be playful with James in ways he would not have imagined just months ago. Although, he’s always had a smart mouth that’s got him into trouble on more than one occasion. Like maybe now.

“Well, I _am_ the boss. You’re on my turf now. And I _do_ have a department to run,” he teases, panting, as James is actually mouthing his earlobe now. “There _are_ other agents to pay attention to, you know...”

The mention of other agents elicits an immediate possessive response from James. He presses harder into him, chest to chest, pulls Q’s arse forward so they are groin to groin, grinds into him. Q jolts at the contact and he staggers forward into James, propelling him backwards a few steps. All Q can think of is those grey trousers, the hardness he can feel against him. Q’s hands fly to James’s chest, unbuttons James’s suit jacket, brushes it aside, pulls the white dress shirt up and out. He can’t wait anymore and he sticks his hand straight down the front of James’s trousers. His long fingers close around a hard cock, grasp it firmly.

James’s whole body jerks under his touch and he gasps. They aren’t thinking anymore, just reacting to lips on lips, hands on cocks, the freedom of total privacy, weeks of hunger finally being slaked. James surges forward again, but in a different direction, this time pushes Q into a wall of metal shelves. Q has to take his hand out of James’s trousers, flailing for support as his back hits the grey metal, clanging sounds ringing in the air as hard objects and boxes fall over; a shower of black pens fall to the floor, bouncing in all directions as they hit the tile.

James grabs a fistful of his sweater, pulling him closer; rams his tongue into his mouth. _It’s not enough. Fuck, he wants more_. Q wants his mouth filled; he knows what he wants right now, what they weren’t able to do in Istanbul. What he’s wanted since the backseat of a car in Zagreb.

He suddenly launches forward, his mouth pressing harder against James’s as his own tongue stabs in with equal force; his hands curl around James’s solid biceps and he shoves James back into an empty space against a hard, empty wall. He can feel James resist at first, his muscles rigid and his mouth hot and demanding, fighting for dominance, fingers digging into him hard enough to leave bruises. But just as suddenly James gives in, lets him do what he wants. Q feels James's body go slack against the wall.

Q’s fingertips slip under the hem of his jacket and grip James’s waistband, just above his hips on either side. He slowly lowers to his knees on his slim-legged navy blue tartan trousers; he is shaky and weak with desire, grateful for something to hang onto, until his face is even with the bulge in a pair of soft, grey trousers. The floor is cold and hard but he doesn’t care. He takes off his glasses, folds them, puts them in a cardigan pocket. He reaches out and reverently undoes a button. Finds the zipper tab, pulls it down slowly. He feels strong fingers touch his head, begin to slide through his hair.

“Q…” James says, his voice rough. “You don’t have to…not that I don't want...fuck, I want...”

“Let me, I want to,” Q says quickly, looking up at him. James nods. He reaches in through the open zipper, through the front slit in a pair of silky boxers, then pulls him out slowly, carefully. Q takes his hand away, allows himself the pleasure of just looking at him for a moment. James’s cock juts straight out, the tip curved slightly upwards. Q doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful than the look of James flushed and sprawled against a wall, zipper down, magnificent cock out, suit otherwise still intact and immaculate. And Q intends to keep it that way.

James pulls his head towards his cock, gently, slowly, and Q can almost imagine he’s in that car, remembers the pressure of James’s hand pushing his head forward; shudders in anticipation when this time he actually makes contact with bare flesh. Q runs his tongue lightly over the tip, and James shudders in return. Then Q moves forward and slowly licks a stripe on the underside from his balls back up to the tip, wetting it.

James moans. “Oh, fuck…Do you remember, in Zagreb...I wanted you then, wanted you to do this..."

Q takes his full length in his hand, strokes it up and down, gliding over the wetness which soon isn’t enough. He guides it into his mouth, taking it in a few inches, tongues it as he does. James’s hips buck involuntarily; Q places a free hand on James’s hip, pushes him back against the wall, holds him still as he moves his mouth up and down, sucking, tonguing, coating it with copious amounts of saliva, taking his time. He takes his mouth off, strokes him more, faster, harder, gliding more easily now with the extra wetness. Strong hands grasp at his hair, rougher now.

Q works him, takes him to the edge and back again with hands and mouth, then finally almost over; he can tell by his trembling, by his breathing, that James wants to come. Q looks up and James is looking back down at him, his eyes dilated and glazed. Q is going to take him in now, all the way in. He wants James to know this from his look, to understand this is ok; that this is what he wants.

He moves his gaze back to James’s erect cock, places his hands on James’s thighs, holding James against the wall again. He opens his mouth and moves forward, begins to take him in, inch by inch. James is not moving; he is letting Q take the lead, to go as far as he wants to go. Q shuts his eyes, breathes through his nose; he loves how full it feels, loves the feel of James inside him.

He relaxes his throat, controls his reflexes. At this point he knows that pleasure and pain are in store in equal measure; but as the very last inch slides in, bumping at the back of his throat, the look and feel of James’s cock fully disappearing into him, his lips up against hot flesh, scratchy hair, the skin of his cheek against silky fabric and the rough teeth of a zipper; the feel of leg muscles shaking under his hands, taught abs heaving and rippling in effort and pleasure in front of his eyes; the intoxicating sound of James moaning incoherently; _it is all so fucking worth it_.

He feels hands fist in his hair, holding his head still. Now James begins to move and Q allows it. Q feels him fuck into him, amazingly controlled and not too rough. Q’s head falls back just a bit; he lets James hold him in place, lets him control the angle. He thrusts in a few more times more, then pulls out for Q to breath; Q pitches forward, gasping for air and James is moaning and swearing at the same time. But Q sucks in a breath, grabs his cock and guides it into his mouth again greedily, taking it all down in one quick movement, all the way to where he can feel it fully down his throat. James swears again, lets it rest there a moment, both of them adjusting to the feeling, reveling in the feeling. James begins to move again; this time he ruts in and out fast, not so gentle now. Q can tell James is trying to hold onto his control but his control is fraying quickly.

“Fuck, Q, I’m going to come,” James rasps, and Q can feel that James is beginning to pull out. Q whines in protest because it’s all he can do, puts his own hands over James’s hands on his head, urges James to take him in deeper by pushing his own head closer.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck...” James almost whimpers, letting Q guide him in; James bottoms out.

And then Q swallows.

His throat tightens around James’s cock, pulling at it, sucking it down even more with the movement of his muscles, milking it. James cries out and his hips thrust forward as he comes; Q can feel the whole length of his cock pulsing, rippling from the root to the tip across the flat of his tongue, pulsing jet after jet of hot, salty liquid down the back of his throat as he swallows it all down, again and again.

Q finally pulls off, needs to regain his breath; but he catches James’s softening prick with his hand as it slides out of his mouth. He laps at it while panting for air, sucking the last strands of milky white off the tip, so overly sensitive now; wrings a few more last moans out of James, keeps going until it is completely clean and Q finally lets his cock go. It nestles back into the enclosure of soft, silky boxers. He notes with satisfaction that not a single spare drop has spilled onto the the fabric of James's grey trousers.

James’s hands slowly unwind from Q’s hair. James is leaning back against the wall, head resting back against it for support, breathing hard, eyes shut tight.

Q leans back on his heels. He throws his own head back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. His throat feels raw, but it only reminds him of James; how much he wants him, how much he wants to give him pleasure, how far in he's had him. Q feels lightheaded with desire and lack of air, intensely sated.

Neither says anything for several long moments. Then he hears the sound of cloth rasp against cement block walls, the squeak of leather soles against tiles, the skittering of a rogue pen kicked across the floor as James slides down to a sitting position, knees up. Q feels hands on his shoulders. Q opens his eyes as James gently pulls him across his lap, cradles him between his chest and his knees for a rough, long, deep kiss.

“Damn, Q,” James manages to say when they finally break apart. “I could get used to coming home to this.”

James is looking down at him, something like wonder in his eyes. James brushes a dark curl of hair off Q's sweaty forehead, trails his fingertips gently across his lips. “You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are, do you, with those red, red lips wrapped around my cock like that, all tight and hot and spread so wide.” He leans down, kisses him lightly just once, pulls away again, continues to stroke his fingers over his lips. “When I kiss you I think they should taste like cherries, but right now all I taste is myself on you and it’s the most fucking erotic thing I think I’ve ever known.”

Q lifts his head and takes those trailing fingertips into his mouth, shuts his eyes again, sucking him, tasting him. “Christ," James breathes out quietly, leaving his fingers where they are, lets Q have his way with them. “I always thought a bullet would be the death of me, but now I think it might be you..."

Q’s eyes open, surprised by James’s words. His mouth opens slightly, but he’s not sure what he might say. James should know not to expect a coherent answer to something like that; but James doesn’t seem to expect him to say anything at all. James withdraws his fingers, reaches for the pocket square at the front of his jacket. He takes Q’s hands, cleans them off one after the other. Q leans into him, listens to the strong thud of James’s heart, closes his eyes and gives himself over to the feeling of his hands being cleaned, massaged, each fingertip kissed when done.

Their phones go off simultaneously, ringing and chiming with texts, jarring them back into reality.

“ _Fuck_. Fucking hell, not now.” James digs his phone out of his pocket, looks at it.

Q slowly sits up, pulls his glasses out of a cardigan pocket and puts them on, then pulls his phone out of the other front pocket. He reads the message that they should all meet M. _Immediately_. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Something's gone to shit, that's for sure." James says, furrowing his brows and sighing in frustration. “This could send me away for quite a while, whatever it is. Dammit, there’s always something in the way. We never get lucky, do we?”

Q can’t help but smile a little, teasing. He tilts his head in James’s direction, looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “Well…one of us did.”

James cracks a smile, pulls Q up to him for another quick kiss. “I wanted to please you, too. I didn’t get the chance to service your…how did you put that…your own dermally-activated _widget_.”

Q flushes. “That is an absolutely legit technical term.”

He’s feeling close to James in this moment, maybe not sure of what’s coming. Fear seeps into him, cold and stealthy; he’s never felt this way before at the prospect of James leaving for a mission, possibly heading back out into danger. He decides to share one of his many secrets. Q isn’t sure how this would ever help, but it makes him feel connected to him, anyway.

He runs a hand up James's chest, under the flap of his jacket. James watches him with curiosity, waits to see what he is doing. Q seeks the grip of the gun he knows is there in its holster. As soon as his hand curls around it and his palm makes contact, the gun emits a high pitched noise and it vibrates as it comes to life; James jumps in surprise as he feels the gun turn on. So far as James or anybody else knows, it can only be activated by James's palm print. But they would all be wrong. Q pulls the gun out of the holster and holds it out in front of them. James stares at the green lights on the grip, at first in confusion and then in comprehension.

"This dermally-activated widget is programmed to respond to my hand, too,” Q says. “Not just yours. Just so you know."

James takes the gun from Q's hand, looks back at Q. He slides it under his jacket; it does not turn off until it sits safely in the holster again. James then takes Q's hand and places it over the front of his trousers, presses Q's hand down and Q's long fingers curl automatically around the bulge of the cock that is already half hard again.

"This one's programmed just for your hand, too, I think." And James kisses him, hard; they nearly lose themselves in each other again until the phones chime insistently with texts and they reluctantly break apart.

“All right, already," James grumbles and stands up, pulling Q up with him. He looks down at his fly, zips it up, tucks in his shirt. Suddenly seems to notice with astonishment that nothing looks amiss on the fabric of his trousers, despite what they had just done.

He looks back up to Q, a smile on his lips. “Now that is what I call _talent_. Fuck, you look like an angel, so bloody innocent, but you are so just _not_ and you're kind of blowing my mind right now. I’m hard again just thinking about it and anything else you might do to me. If I should ever be so lucky again. Which I certainly hope I am.”

“We’d better go,” Q says, flustered, flushing again and trying to hide a smile. He starts to turn towards the door. But a hand shoots out and grabs his arm.

“Wait,” James says. “Wait a second.”

Q turns back to him. “What?”

James looks at him critically. His large hands land on Q’s shoulders, slowly slide down to smooth out the fabric of his cardigan over his arms. He flips down a folded up lapel of Q’s white dress shirt. He straightens Q’s tie and tightens the knot, scarred knuckles bumping just under his chin, the other hand tugging down on the long tail. Lethal, powerful hands that could kill a man, Q knows, but instead fuss over him like he's arranging a vase of delicate flowers.

Q just stands there, frozen, at a complete loss for words once again while he watches James concentrate on him. He’s thrown back into his past, suddenly nine years old again. Q recalls the exact moment vividly; it was the last time he’d ever felt truly safe or truly loved. His mother is fixing him up before they go to a party, yanking at his collar and spitting on her hand and running it over his unruly hair as he squirms in her grasp, skinny as a rail then just like he is now. He is mouthing off to her, as usual, but he is thinking how pretty she is, how much he loves her but he doesn’t know how to say it. But he knows she knows, just the same. She died a month after that, leaving him alone with his father. He never felt safe again after that.

He's a grown man now. But no one has bothered to fix him up since, not until now.

James reaches out and runs a hand over Q’s hair, combs through it with his fingers, smoothes it down into place. Q's breath catches in his chest. Something constricts and then opens in his heart in rapid succession, like a hand has just reached in, squeezed it hard and let it go again. Tears prick at his eyes and Q blinks them away, glad that James can’t see behind his glasses.

“I missed you, too,” Q says quietly, finally finding his voice, which is hoarse and raspy.

James smiles gently. “That wasn’t so hard to say, now was it?”

James leans in, slowly kisses him and runs his tongue over his lips, lightly lapping at the corners of his mouth. Q’s eyes flutter shut. James lingers over the cupid’s bow of his top lip, lightly catching it between his teeth, gently rolling it between his own lips before he finally lets it go. Q’s breath seeps out of him in a sigh as he slowly opens his eyes again. Lastly, James leans down and brushes the dust from Q’s knees, then straightens up.

“There,” James says, finally satisfied. “Now you look like you haven’t just sucked off your favorite agent."

Q tamps down his roiling emotions. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he tries to joke. “You, though...you _totally_ look like you’ve just been sucked off by your Quartermaster. So _smug_. In fact, you always look like you’ve just been sucked-”

A genuine bark of laughter erupts from James and cuts him off. “-Enough out of you!” Still laughing, his hands land on his shoulders again, pivot him manually and propel him towards the door. “I will make you pay for all that sauciness, don’t you doubt it.”

_Q doesn’t doubt it, doesn't doubt it one bit that he will pay, one way or another. With a sudden flash of premonition, he knows how it's going to be if he keeps up with James. Pleasure and pain, in equal measure; it can be no other way._


	10. August - London/Sharm El Shiekh, Egypt

The pain comes sooner than he expected.

It’s not a big mission. Nothing that involves the entire resources of MI6. No one is expecting trouble, least of all Q. They are going to test Q Branch equipment, so he sits in. He has already hacked into the hotel security system, already controls every door and alarm.

They are in a small control room, not the main one. Moneypenny is with him. Sometimes she misses the field. Sometimes she likes to watch. Q has no issues with that; he rather appreciates her company, in fact. She can always make a dull day go by more quickly.

The screen has been fixed on James’s empty hotel room; it’s modern and the colors are earthy. The decorations are the tacky sort of fake Egyptian art that makes him cringe, all plaster Nefertiti head sculptures and sphinx paperweights and vases with crudely drawn and inaccurate hieroglyphics. Q is tapping a pen rhythmically against the desk; Moneypenny is slumped forward with her chin in her hand.

Suddenly the hotel door flies open, startling them both as they jump in their chairs. James comes in, back first. Q’s heart catches in his chest; it always does, every time he sees him and he hasn’t seen him in a few weeks, not since what happened in his office.

Then Q sees the pair of feminine hands fastened around his neck. James shuts the door with a foot and rotates, the woman attached to him now in full view. Q watches them stagger into James’s room, the woman grasping at James’s jacket and pushing it off his shoulders.

She is tall and thin, pale and beautiful, her face angular. Her hair is short and dark and curly. She is wearing a long black dress. James slips a hand inside her plunging cleavage, the delicate shoulder straps fall off to the sides. James pushes her up against the wall; they are kissing each other passionately, in a way that Q knows firsthand.

James puts his hands on her thighs and grabs the fabric to pull the dress up and out of the way, the material caught in bunches between their tightly pressed bodies. He moves his hands to her hips and lifts her up, pressing her harder against the wall for support; her legs wrap around his waist.

Still kissing, he finally pulls her back from the wall, her legs still around him, and he walks her to the bed, lays her down on her back. Then he lays down on top of her. Q can’t see the woman below him, or what exactly is going on below him; the camera angle cuts off just below James’s face and shoulders. He can still see her hands, though; long fingers covered with rings and tipped with glossy crimson nails running though the hair at the back of his head.

Moneypenny, sitting next to Q, discreetly looks to the side, biting her lip.

But Q cannot. He feels himself pulling away as he watches, like he is getting smaller and floats to the ceiling, disassociating.

_He’s not in the control room anymore. He’s in the flat he had before he moved for the job at MI6. It’s late; he’s walking through their sitting room, sorting through the mail he picked up from the kitchen counter after he comes back early from a work trip. It’s dark; he wanders to the bedroom to see if his boyfriend is asleep, trying to be quiet so as not to wake him if he is._

_He sees them, then; in their bed. The white envelopes he’s holding flutter to the floor like birds shot from the sky._

He really should look away like Moneypenny, but still, he can’t.

James’s shoulders are moving up and down, she is moaning.

_They don’t see him at first; Q just stands there, watches his lover on his knees, hands on someone else’s hips raised in front of him. Watches him push leisurely into the other man, like he has all the time in the world, not a care in the world, sweat shining on his back; certainly not worried about being interrupted. So intent on having his cake he doesn't even hear him come in. Until Q says his name. Calm, disassociated, just like he is now._

_Panicked, his boyfriend scrambles off, grabs the sheet, pulls it over them. And that was the bitter, horrible end of that. So much for white picket fences._

James looks directly into the hidden camera.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” he says.

“James,” she sighs. “Tell me everything.” Her accent sounds Russian.

“I could look into your eyes all night. I could bury my hands in your hair forever.”

Moneypenny snorts. "He's not even looking at her. Christ, some people will believe anything."

Still James’s gaze never wavers from the camera. Q’s breath grows ragged, his heart fills with a dark and searing pain. He’s seen this all before, it shouldn’t bother him now…but it does.

Because everything has changed. Q can still feel the heat of hot stone against his back, an insistent mouth on his and a firm hand on his cock; can still feel the cold office tile on his knees, his mouth on James, lips tight around his engorged length, James moaning and pliant under his touch; a kiss against his eyelids, soft like butterflies.

_It feels like it’s happening all over again. It’s fucking one and a half years later and he’s still not fucking over it; he’s in that fucking flat all over again. Watching his lover fuck someone else all over again._

Q knows it’s not a rational thought, but he can’t stop it.

“It’s going to be so amazing to be inside you,” James says. “I can’t wait to see your face when you come.”

She cries out then, climaxing, but James shuts his eyes.

Moneypenny, all business now, speaks into her headset. “Do it. Prick her now. With the watch this time, I mean, ha ha."

He reaches down to brush back her hair, his watch subtly knocking against her. She laughs and Q imagines she stretches in pleasure, still beneath him.

“God, you’re good,” she says. “My head is spinning.”

And then it’s silent.

James wastes no time. He gets off her, stands up next to the bed, subtly zips himself back in. He picks up her limp hand and pulls at a ring, which is on tight. It is some work to get it off. They knew it would be; he’d tried to gently pry it off before, several times, by holding her hand at the beach or in a restaurant, sensuously sliding his fingers down her forearm to the tips of her fingers, but it always held fast. James had had to step it up to these extreme measures to get it.

Q feels his stomach tighten, feels sick. Intellectually, he knows he’s overreacting; but his heart disagrees. It is in that moment that he knows. He knows it as clearly as anything has ever been clear to him.

_He is in love. He loves James Bond. He is deeply, passionately, terrifyingly in love._

But it’s so much worse than that; he is an idiot. It’s also clear to him that James can make anybody feel like this. Can drug anybody as casually as he had just drugged her. Had just as easily done it all to him not so long ago.

_Some people will believe anything._

Once the ring is off, James flips open a hidden hinge, confirms the microchip is inside. He puts the ring into his pocket, then leans over and lays two fingers against her neck, checks to be sure she is all right.

He looks back up at the camera. “She’s ok. She won’t even remember how she got here. Might even think she had too much to drink."

“Ha,” Moneypenny says. “She’ll wake up and just think you fucked her senseless.”

“That much would be true,” James says cheekily. He rearranges her dress with modest care, brushes her hair out of her face and over her shoulder, makes sure she looks comfortable. Then he goes to the closet and grabs his go bag, already packed and waiting.

“She’s not going to be out all night. Q adjusted the dose to make it a little less extreme, but she’ll be out a few hours. When she wakes up and notices the ring is gone, all hell is going to break lose. I’m out of here.”

At the door, James pauses, taps his ear mic. “Q?” He taps it again. “Q. You’re too quiet. Are you still with me?”

Q says nothing, his throat constricted.

“The plane is waiting at the airport, ready to go,” Moneypenny says.

James waits a few more seconds, then something flashes across his face. He looks up directly into the camera again, his brow furrowed. But finally he lowers his eyes, opens the door and leaves.

Moneypenny spins in her swiveling leather chair, drumming her hands on the desktop, triumphant with their shared success. “Now _that_ was a master class in how you _get it done_.”

Q slowly pulls his headset off, lays it on the keyboard.

Moneypenny stops twirling in her chair, then looks over at Q.

“Oh. Oh, no.” Realization dawns on her face. “Q. That wasn’t...you know. That wasn’t anything.”

Q quietly leaves the room and doesn't look back.

***

Q is in his office, working on a complex coding problem. Whenever he wants to forget, it’s easy enough to escape into a world of numbers and letters that demand all his attention.

He’s reeling from his own self-discovery. If he were honest, though, he knows he’s been in love with James for a long time now, nearly as long as he’s known him. He doesn’t routinely break MI6 protocols and get on actual airplanes and crash motorbikes and take harebrained risks and step in front of bullets for just anyone. It just took this long to admit it.

And really, he should have seen this coming. Could have put two and two together and known exactly what would happen in front of a computer screen one day. He wonders about his former lover, if he should have seen the signs of that impending implosion then, too. Wonders how naïve he can really be, then as now. Wonders why he can’t keep his heart locked down and his dick in his pants. That would be such a better idea all the way around.

There’s a knock on his slightly open door.

“Can I come in?” Moneypenny asks.

Q looks over his shoulder, nods. He already knows why she’s here, surprised it’s taken her this long. She comes in and stops at his desk, half sitting with her hip on a stack of papers.

“Are you sleeping with him?” she asks straight away, her face serious.

Q flushes, pecks at the keyboard. “That’s not really any of your business.”

“Actually, it kind of is. We’re a team, we all rely on each other. Are you sleeping with him?”

Q pushes away the keyboard. He’s not sure if the best hand job of his life in the hamam counts. Not sure if the night he was drugged and slept with James in his bed counts. Not sure if James’s cock down his throat counts. “Yes. No. Well...not...exactly.”

“Hmmm,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m surprised you’re not...exactly. I guess I had assumed you were. I guess I had assumed you were ok with all this.”

Q knows what she means. “I’m…I’m not like the two of you.”

“That’s probably why he likes you so much.”

Q flushes. “I just need some time to figure it out.”

She frowns. “You better figure it out. I have to know your head is in the game, and so does he. Or people could die. I just covered for you back there, told him you were called away. Anything could have happened between the hotel and the airport. Anything at all. Fortunately it didn’t.”

Q feels stricken, confused. He knows she’s right. There was always something around the corner just waiting to kill you. He still has a job to do. He’s still the Head of Q Branch, no matter what. “You’re right. Point taken. Won’t happen again.”

“Well. Don’t take too long to figure it out. Sometimes tomorrow never comes.” But she softens a bit. “Look. I know you’re new here. I was new not so long ago, too. But here’s the thing about MI6. There isn’t any grace period. You just get thrown in, and it’s all a trial by fire from there.”

She picks up a random piece of paper, pretends to look at it. Q notices it is upside down.

“Nobody here is normal, Q. Nobody here can have a normal life.” She puts the paper down, then looks back up at him, studies him. “I loved him, you know. Probably still do.”

Q meets her gaze directly; he can’t blame her for that. If she’s looking to get some sort of rise out of him, some sort of confession, she’s not getting it.

Moneypenny sighs. “Picture this. I loved him, and then I shot him off a bridge. Somebody told me in my ear a thousand miles away to take the shot...so I took the shot. I fucking took the shot and it was a bloody awful shot. I thought I killed him. Everybody did. Every day that I came to work, everybody thought, ‘Oh, there’s the one that killed James Bond.’ Although I’m sure they used a bit cruder language than that. Can you imagine that?”

“No,” Q says weakly. He can’t. He can’t imagine him dead, he can’t. But he knows, statistically speaking, it’s all too possible. The thought is unbearable. This is all so fucking unbearable, watching him screw somebody else for work. Knowing James could straighten his tie and smooth down his hair one day and be dead the next. He doesn’t think he can willingly sign up for this.

She smiles bitterly. “For months, I really thought he was dead. We all did. And then one day he comes dragging back in here, but he wasn’t the same. Well, he was breathing, technically, but he wasn’t _alive._ And I felt responsible. But I stayed, and I’m still here, despite what happened...though I never really wanted to be a field agent again. That was _my_ trial by fire."

“I’m sorry,” Q blurts out, not sure what else to say.

Moneypenny pushes on, barely hearing him, lost in her own thoughts. “You don’t even know what he was like before you came. He was reckless, lost, drank too much. Like he didn’t even _want_ to live anymore.”

“I’ve...heard.”

“Maybe…but you don’t really know. _I know_. And then you showed up, and everything changed. _He_ changed. You brought him back to life. I swear it, you did.”

Q pales, shocked. Shocked, thrilled, aroused, terrified to hear it. But he deliberately prevaricates, shifts his eyes away. “I’m honestly not that interesting.”

“Oh, but you are. Especially to somebody we both know. For Christ’s sake, Q, you’re the only one who doesn’t get it.” Moneypenny shakes her head. “I’ve got some advice. If you stay with MI6, you might make friends.” She eyes him sidewise. “You might even fall in love. But I can guarantee you one thing; sooner or later, we will all do terrible things to each other. Terrible things. We won’t want to, but we will. Because that’s the cost of Queen and Country, sacrifice for the greater good and all that shit. But after? We have to forgive. James forgave _me_ for almost killing him.”

She stands up suddenly, smoothes down her dress. “Look. I’m not even sure what I would do, in your shoes...he’s a hell of a lot to take on, no question about it. I mean, he’s better than he was but he’s still reckless and drinks too much and he’s still kind of an arrogant prick, really..." She pauses, considers him again. "But, you know, there’s something about you, despite how you look, that’s strong as steel, I can feel it. So can he. So I know you can make the hard decisions. But... just be careful with his heart, ok? Whatever you decide to do. He’s not as strong as you might think. Despite how _he_ looks.”

And then she leaves, quietly closes the door behind her.

Q stares at the screen, the figures blending together in front of him again. He doesn’t know what to believe. Doesn’t know what he should do. He's actually a bit in awe of how well she knows James, how much she clearly still loves him. He has a vague worry that if he screws this up, Moneypenny might shoot _him_ off a bridge.

He’s in love with James Bond, and it’s all consuming in its hot intensity; he’s already felt the pain of having to share him, already feels the pain of loss anticipated. He could still walk away, he might still be strong enough…

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. James is his trial by fire. It always comes down to fire for him. And this time, he honestly doesn’t know if it's better to stir the flames or put them out._


	11. September - Somewhere in Romania

The old train car jostles them as it moves over the tracks, the smell of dust and diesel and stale cigarette smoke in the air. It’s dark outside; there is nothing to see of the passing countryside except an occasional cluster of lights from a village in the distance. Nothing to hear but the sound of the clicking of the wheels and the occasional long, slow howl of the train whistle.

It’s still hot, damn hot for September, even at night; Q feels sweat trickle down the back of his vintage Star Wars t-shirt, uncomfortable against the old, frayed pleather seats. The dim lamp above him casts a pool of light just bright enough to read by.

Q stares at the book he’s holding in front of him, _The Erotic Art of Pompeii_ , trying to concentrate on the words and images. But he can’t make sense of them. Not with the way those blue eyes directly across from his seat are boring into him, darting from the cover of the book to his face, back to the book. Resting on his face again. He holds the book higher to block those eyes from his view. Recalls that on the cover of the book is a picture of a large erect stone phallus. Instantly regrets choice of book.

Q hasn’t seen him since the mission in Sharm, which was only on camera; it’s the first time they’ve been face-to-face since that last time in his office. James joined them an hour ago, getting on at a small station in the middle of nowhere; just finishing one mission and heading to another, traveling with them to Bucharest.

With each jolt of the train, the expensive wool-clad knees in front of him bump into his cheap jean-clad ones. Q tries tries to not think about touching him, tries to ignore the sparks between them.

_Put it out put it out put it out. It’s better that way._

Moneypenny is sitting next to him, next to the window. “We should get to Bucharest soon.” She looks outside, stretches her arms above her head. She looks back inside the car and glances from one frowning face to the other. “Christ, it’s glum in here. I’m going to the snack car. Anybody want anything?”

Neither of them answers. Q’s face is still in his book. James is slumped in his seat with his arms crossed in front of him, suit jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loose and hanging down a few inches. His face is half in shadow, a brooding look darkening it even more.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” She puts her hands on their knees and shoves her way between the jumble of legs and exits the private compartment, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Q.”

The deep voice rumbles in the air between them as soon as she is gone.

Q answers perfunctorily, still pretending to read. “What?”

Another few seconds pass before a large hand clamps on top of the book, forcing it down.

“Look at me, Q.”

Q sighs with a display of bravado he doesn’t feel, lowers the book into his lap. Forces himself to finally meet those glacial blue eyes.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much,” James says, warily. “I’ve had to do a lot of traveling.”

“It’s ok. I know you have to.”

James’s eyes narrow suspiciously at his bland answer. “You’re angry with me.”

He isn’t, actually. Not angry at James. He’s angry at himself for letting his own emotions get away from him. For believing things that were said or done in the heat of the moment, fueled by desire or adrenaline or painkillers or as an act in a play. Only one part he knows is real; the desire is true, their chemistry is real. So real he can feel it shimmering around them even now.

But they’re all just doing their jobs and he can’t let himself be swayed or paralyzed by things that happen along the way. Or so he tells himself ten times a day, since he’s decided what needs to be done.

Q shakes his head. “No. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” James presses. “You’re pulling away from me, I can feel it.”

“No,” Q insists, feigning coolness. He picks up his book again, hoping his hands aren’t shaking too much. “Look, I’ve been thinking…”

“Well, shit,” James says, an edge of sarcasm to his voice. “Nothing good ever started with _those_ words.”

“ _Look_ ,” Q says again, doggedly, determined not to be sidetracked. “I’m not pulling away. I’m just being…professional. I’m thinking it’s better if we just keep things professional. So there’s nothing to pull away _from_. Don’t you think that would be better?”

“No, I fucking don’t.” James seems almost amused for a moment, like it’s a joke, then he realizes with shock that it isn’t. “We've been down this road before. I thought that was settled. I thought we…I thought...you and me…”

Q slowly pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the tip of his finger. He can’t look at him. “Well...no.”

_What the fuck is he doing? Who on earth says no to James Bond? And why the hell would he want to?_

Because he’s terrified, that’s why. Terrified of being sucked down into a pit of love and lust and need so deep he’ll never get out, always have his head ducked under the water over and over again every time there’s a mission that requires the planning, execution, and viewing of a little bit of extracurricular honeypot homework. Or worse, maybe watch him get shot or stabbed and die right in front of him on screen in glorious HD technicolor. No. No, no, no. Even though it was killing him to do this. Better a quick rip of the plaster, a momentary flash of pain, than a slow peel and prolonged agony.

James is no longer shocked. Now he’s angry.

“Goddammit, Q. Why are you doing this?”

James suddenly lunges forward, grabs the book and tries to pry it from Q’s hands. But Q hangs on to his book tenaciously, stands up in the struggle. His head bumps into the ceiling light, switching it off, plunging the car into semi-darkness.

Q stubbornly tries to hide the book behind his back, but James reaches around him with both arms to try and grab it. They are breathing heavy with exertion, faces close. Q’s pulse is pounding; it’s so hot in the car, he can feel the slick sheen of sweat on James’s bare forearms sliding against his own.

The door opens, and a gush of cool air sweeps in along with a burst of noise from the outside world. Moneypenny stands in the doorway, frozen, a bottle of water in her hand. Her eyes sweep from one shadow embracing the other in the darkness.

“Um. I’ll come back later then, yeah?”

The door slides shut and it grows quiet again.

“Really, James,” Q protests lamely, still holding the book out of reach as best he can.

“Give it to me,” James grunts in the darkness, close to his ear, groping for the book and wedging a knee between Q’s legs, almost knocking him off balance; the book falls from Q’s hand and tumbles to the floor. James’s arms tighten around him, keep him from falling over, too. “I don’t know what’s going on but I know I don’t like it. And frankly I should put you over my knee for reading that particular book right in front of me.”

“Oh, come on, James. This is juvenile!”

“Juvenile, you say?” James mimics, out of breath from the wrestling. “Ok, let’s talk juvenile. Let’s talk about _you_. Is this about Sharm? It’s about Sharm, isn’t it? Maybe angry isn't the right word. Maybe you’re just _jealous_. That seems a little juvenile, considering the kind of work we do.”

That hits close to the mark, but that’s still not quite it. Q twists his face away; he can’t help himself; his hurt leaks out despite his best attempt to be cool about it. "Looks like you enjoyed yourself, though."

"Ah _ha_ ,” James practically purrs, elated with finally prying out some information, his breath fanning against his flushed skin. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So that’s what the silent treatment is all about. It didn’t mean anything, you know. It was just a job. You’ve seen it all before.”

_But that was before I fell so fucking hard in love with you._

But Q doesn’t say anything out loud, his heart pounding erratically.

James narrows his eyes again, glinting in the near darkness. “I’m on to you, Q. I know your tactics. Just say nothing and let the other people talk when they can’t take the silence, right? Spill their guts so you don’t have to? Interrogation 101. I took that class and aced it _long_ before you ever did, my young Padawan."

Q remains even more stubbornly silent after that. Even though he is grudgingly impressed and alarmingly turned on by the sexy/nerdy reference to his t-shirt. James isn't wrong about him, though. He _is_ naturally quiet and not prone to over-sharing; he certainly does tend to play that to his advantage. Leave it to James to blow the lid right off that cover.

James’s face and mood grow even darker. He moves forward and places his lips right next to Q's ear, his words ruffling his curls.

“Fine, I’ll talk. But maybe you won’t like what you hear. I’m not going to lie to you, I’ll _never_ lie to you. To be honest, I didn’t mind it. That kind of work is always better than pulling a trigger or getting my face punched in. And it doesn’t happen so often, really it doesn’t. But do I like to fuck? Yeah. I like to fuck women, yeah, sure I do. I like the feel of a breast under my hand. I like how my cock feels when a woman comes with me inside her, the way she clamps down on me. I like how soft the body of a woman is, next to mine.”

James is purposely taunting him. Q stares into the darkness like a deer in headlights, James breathing into the side of his neck. This just isn’t going like he’d imagined this trip to go, not at all. He’d imagined they would stay neatly on their own sides of the compartment, divided by civility and the presence of Moneypenny. But James is not being very civil, and Moneypenny ditched him.

“You know what else I like?” James continues, his voice low and sultry. “I like to fuck men, too.” He presses his lips against the side of Q’s neck, speaks into the hot flesh. “ _Obviously_.” He flick’s Q’s neck with the tip of his tongue, and Q shivers. James’s head pulls back and now he feathers his lips deliberately over Q’s mouth. “I like to be inside a man when I come. _Obviously_.” He practically breathes that last word into Q’s parted lips, making sure Q remembers the last time they were together.

He takes his hands from behind Q’s back and runs them slowly down Q’s slick forearms, stopping at Q’s wrists, holding them down at his sides, rubs his cheek against Q's. “I like the feel of hard muscle beneath my hands, the burn of a jaw that needs a good shave. I like it when I hold a man’s cock in my hand and it gets hard. I like it when a man comes all over my hand when I’m holding him, stroking him off.” He pulls back then, and studies Q, his head tilted. The tone of James’s voice grows almost philosophical. “I prefer to top, but I’ll do either. I like it all, always have. It all feels good to me. And I don’t think I’ve ever, ever felt anything quite so good as you.”

“Christ, James,” Q says weakly; his body is reacting strongly to James’s deep voice, talking so nonchalantly about all the ways he likes to have sex; talking about having sex with him. Reacting to the way that James is touching him, kissing him.

James’s lets go of his wrists and his hands come up to either side of his face. He makes Q look at him, his long thumbs stroke across Q’s high cheekbones. “What do _you_ like, Q? Tell me what you like.”

Q blinks. James has the power to provoke him like no one else. The true but sassy words tumble off his tongue in rapid succession. “Only men. I prefer to bottom, but I’ll do either. And go ahead and put me over your knee, I might like it.”

James narrows his eyes again, draws in a deep breath. His eyes float down to Q’s lips. His voice is rough. “Do you even hear yourself sometimes, I wonder? Do you have any idea how perfect we could be for each other? Surely you can feel it, what there is between us. I’ve had a taste of you, but not nearly enough. And you are sadly mistaken if you think I’m just going to let you slip away." James lets out a deep breath now. "Jesus, Q. I’ve never had to work so hard to get anyone into my bed and there was never anyone more perfectly made for it. Maybe you just like making me crazy like this. Maybe you just like playing with me, I don’t know.”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Q says quickly. He never does that, frankly doesn’t even have the talent for that. He’s just a man who’s sadly, pathetically, devotedly, monogamously, naively sincere when in love. Just a guy trying to save himself before it’s too late. He pulls himself together enough to blurt out the thought foremost in his mind, the one he’s not been able to dislodge for a month. “But I’m…I’m not just one of your jobs.”

James takes that in, pulls back just a little. “No, Q. You’re not. Do you really think I can’t make that distinction? Do you really think that of me?”

Now that he puts it that way, his own concern about it does seem a little ridiculous, unfair. His judgment is clouded. He’s confusing this with his past experiences. It feels all mixed up, he can’t seem to tease it apart.

James scrutinizes him, looks for the truth. An expression, almost wistful, crosses his face. “Oh, Q. I think I see now. I’d almost forgotten how lovely a soft heart can be, I so rarely run across one anymore. You’re really not angry, are you? I don't even think you're jealous. You’re hurt. You were afraid I would hurt you and I’ve already hurt you.” His thumbs caress his face again, stroking softly over his flushed skin. “I wonder who did this to you, made you feel this way. He'd better hope I never meet him."

Q's eyes widen, surprised by James's perception.

James presses on, continues to stroke him. "Don’t you see, Q? I have to make it look real, like in Sharm. I have to make them believe. The minute the mark thinks I’m not all in, well, that’s the minute I get killed. _It's not cheating_. Can you understand that? I’ll admit, there are times it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not. And honestly there were plenty times I didn't really care as long as it felt good. But, this… _this_ feels real to me. You feel real to me.”

James pushes forward, body against body. “That time, in Chicago, when you first kissed me… In Zagreb, Sarajevo, Istanbul...Christ, how it was in your office. Kind of makes me think there’s something there, that you might feel something for me. Am I wrong?”

Q can’t lie, not standing next to him like this, bodies touching lengthwise. James is still holding his head steady, searching his eyes for answers.

“Not wrong,” Q whispers, trembling. James’s hands tighten their grip as he says this. “But...”

James’s mouth suddenly swoops down on his, cutting him off as he pulls his head towards him roughly, stirring up the flames. This he can’t resist, he can’t. They are both desperate, starving, making up for weeks of absence, desire fueled by their stupid quarreling, all lips and mouths on each other. Hands twisting in hair, pulling mouths closer. Hands on hips and arses, pulling up shirts, sliding over bare skin.

Lips still locked together, James’s hand trails down Q’s smooth chest, picks up the light trail of hair below the navel that leads downwards; he stops at the waist of Q’s jeans, fingertips brushing just under the band; hand grasping at the fabric now as if poised to pull it all down with one strong tug. Q can feel James’s knuckles pressing against his abdomen, fingers teasing at his button: Q is waiting for it. But James doesn’t go any further.

“I could make you do it, you know,” James whispers, as they pause for air. “I could make you do just about anything right now, I think. But I won’t. Because I’m learning no one can make you do anything you don’t really want to do. Oh, you might give me your body, but I want more. I want it _all_.”

James stops talking, exhales in frustration, looks at the door that could open at any time. He takes another deep breath, lets go of Q’s jeans and stands back to put a few inches between them. He reaches up and turns on the ceiling lamp. The weak pool of light illuminates them. Q knows his hair is mussed, his clothes are askew, his eyes are probably round like saucers; he’s trembling all over and he’s hard as a rock, and James sees it all, too.

“Now look at what I’ve gone and done. Just look at you, what I can do to you.” James says this almost absently but with an edge of smug satisfaction as he studies him, but his voice is just slightly uneven, maybe not as cool as he would like Q to think.

But now, in the dim light, Q can see him, too. Q can see the tense set of his jaw, the hurt in James’s eyes that he’s trying to hide with brash talk. It comes to him as a revelation; Q never imagined he truly had the power. James Bond, the man who told him not so long ago he didn't go in for commitments, only pleasure. A man that scares the shit out of the better part of MI6 staff just by looking at them wrong. Maybe they'd all been taken in by his glamour; felt he was just that little bit more than mortal. But what Q sees before him now is just an ordinary man, after all. Able to be hurt.

Q’s heart sinks. Now _he’s_ the one who’s done a terrible thing. He never wanted to hurt him, never. Hadn’t even thought he could. He never meant to be this confused.

James places a strong hand under Q’s chin, forces it up so Q has to look at him again. “I can be a real dick sometimes, when I don’t get what I want. But then again, I’m not going to lie. I like that I can wreck you like this. And I can do so much more to you. So much more.”

Q shudders under his touch. James’s thumb slides slowly over Q’s bottom lip, pulling it down a little; Q wants to take it all into his mouth. He wants James to kiss him again. Anything. But James just drops his hand; Q’s bottom lip slowly curls up again, and his mouth slowly closes. Silent once again.

James reaches down and picks up the book from the floor, hands it back to Q. He sits down on his own side of the car, tucks in his shirt. He looks maddeningly composed, crossing one leg over the other, laying his jacket across his lap.

A minute goes by and neither says anything. Q is clutching his book, still standing, the pages wrinkling under his firm, sweaty grip, his own shirt still rucked up. Finally, he speaks; James is the one using silence against him now. But he has to know. James had said he wanted more; said he wanted it all.

“What _do_ you want?”

James looks directly at him, speaks to him calmly.

“I want you to look at me like you used to, before Sharm. I want you to talk to me like you used to, before Sharm. I want you to love me like you used to, before fucking Sharm. And when you do, I’m going to fuck you proper. I am going bury myself in you and make you scream my name and forget anyone else ever existed before me. I’m going to wreck you like no one ever has before."

Q’s eyes widen in surprise yet again. They'd never talked above love, never even close. Q knows how he feels about James, but wasn’t aware James knew it; and until tonight, he never knew what James felt about him. He still doesn’t know, but the gauntlet that James has thrown looks pretty damn appealing no matter how James feels about him. Maybe James really can make him forget. Maybe he really does mean everything he says. Maybe James even feels something for him, too.

He feels oddly energized, now that it's all out in the open. Q stares down at him, deliberately provocative, from under his long eyelashes.

“Just what makes you think I can’t wreck you more?”

James inhales sharply. Then he raises an eyebrow, smiles slowly. Equally provocative in return. “Now _that’s_ the spirit.”

The train whistle blows. Q can feel they are slowing down.

James speaks again, one last time. “When we get to Bucharest, I go straight to the airport. I know you’re staying on. Spare a thought for me while I’m gone, will you, Q? Think about everything I said. Think about it a _lot_. And then let’s just see who cracks first, shall we?”

Q lets out his breath. “James...I’m not trying to be difficult. Or hurtful. I’m just trying to do the right thing.” This time it’s he who sighs in frustration. “Whatever the fuck that is.”

James just looks at him with those heavy-lidded eyes. Then he enunciates two words very clearly.

“ _Try harder_.”

Q can't stop his smart mouth, desperate to relieve the tension.

"Ok. Fine. Whatever...Yoda."

James can't stop his genuine snort of laughter but tries to hide it quickly. "I am _so_ going to put that mouth to such better use..."

This time there’s a knock on the door. But there’s no need for discretion; they’re already on their own sides of the car, silent, staring at each other. But Q can feel there is the barest hint of a smile on his face and he can see the same on James’s.

As Moneypenny comes in, Q brushes past her on his way out to the WC. Fucking hell, he can't even maintain a righteous state of indignation for long around James, although he rightfully should, for all that manhandling and those arousing, domineering ultimatums and sexy nerdy talk and surprisingly perceptive observations and general respect of his limits and all around fantastic kissing...damn him.

He is, however, having no trouble at all maintaining a righteous boner. How James can sit there so calm and collected, he has no fucking idea. Q thinks it's like he missed the new employee orientation memo about the "Boner Suppression 101" class at MI6. Or, better yet, "How To Power Down Your Dermal Widget Remotely." He thinks of a dozen more fake sarcastic titles as he strides down the train's swaying hallway. All taught by James, no doubt.

_He hopes they have at least ten minutes left before they pull into Bucharest. But honestly, he’s only going to need about two._


	12. October - London/Mykonos - Wednesday

Q’s personal phone rings, wakes him up from a deep sleep. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. Then he realizes he’s in his own bed, in his own flat. His arm flails out and he grabs the phone and his glasses from the nightstand, can't get his sleepy eyes to focus on the dimly lit number. 

He answers cautiously. “Boothroyd."

“I need your advice, Q.”

It’s James, not missing a beat, like he’s picking up a conversation interrupted less than a minute ago, not weeks ago. His voice is a bit slurred. Q can hear the clink of ice in a drink. Q’s confused; as far as he knows, there isn’t an active 007 mission tonight.

Anxiety is creeping in now, too; he hasn’t seen or talked to James since the train in Romania. It hadn’t ended entirely well. It had ended in a stalemate, to be entirely accurate.

Sleep still addles his brain. Q flips to another screen on his phone, tries to track him but can’t find his signal.

“Where are you?”

“Oh, just knocking around the neighborhood.”

Q recalls James’s neighborhood is pretty big. Like the size of the world. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

There’s a pause. “Mykonos, I think.”

“You _think_?” Q rubs his eyes. “What time is it, anyway?"

“I dunno. Late.” 

“Why can’t I track you? Don’t you have your radio pen with you?”

“I’m off the grid for a few days. Don't really want to be found. And I’ve discovered this marvelous new invention, it works anywhere. It’s called a _telephone_ , maybe Q branch should check it out. Maybe use it once in a while."

Q detects sarcasm and more than a hint of reproof to his tone. Q sighs. A hundred times in the last month he has picked up his phone to call James. But he never did. Too stubborn, cautious, determined to be right. Stupid. He regrets all that now; the sound of James's voice, even pissed and in a mood, feels like coming home and he's been on the road for far too long.

Q hears the ice cubes clink again, then a muffled crash. “ _Shit_. Damn chair in my way.” Then, the sound of mattress springs creaking, a long sigh. “That’s better. This bed is really comfy.”

He waits a few seconds, but James doesn't say anything more. Q can only hear breathing on the other end, wonders if he is still awake.

"Um...James? Everything ok?..”

James sighs again. Q can hear him take another drink before he speaks. “I’ve got this problem, see. There’s something I’m not sure how to go about. I think I need to plan this mission differently, go at it from a different angle.”

Q isn't sure where this is going, but he plays along. “Um...ok. Go on.”

“There’s this man. It’s job-related, of course. I initiated contact with this man a few weeks ago, but he hasn’t responded back to me at all. He’s got something I want. But I’m not sure how to get it.”

 _Oh_. Q tenses, holds his breath for a moment. _It’s going there_. But he decides to go with it. It's easier this way, coming at it sideways. “Why not?”

“I don’t understand him, not really. I think he wants me. I’m sure he wants me. But I might have come on too strong, scared him off.”

Q lets out his breath, slides down lower into his pillows. Holds his phone tighter, plays the scientist.

"How do you know he wants you? What evidence do you have?”

“I can feel it when he watches me. Which he does, by the way. A _lot_. He thinks I don’t notice but I just pretend I don’t. He's put himself in danger for me, more often than he should. He shivers whenever I touch him.” He takes another drink, liquid sloshing against the glass. "Also, I've had his dick in my hand.”

Q flushes and his dick twitches, perking up at the mention of its name. He smiles a little in the dark. “Hmmm. Sounds promising. Sounds like something you can work with.”

James snorts. “You would think so. But every time I try, I just make it worse. He moves farther away again.” He stops talking, and a few long seconds go by. When he speaks again, his voice is melancholy. “I think...I think he's leaving me. I don't know what to do, Q. Tell me what to do.” 

Q rests his head back against his pillows, phone close to his ear. _James thinks he’s leaving him_. And maybe he is, Q realizes; he honestly hasn’t known which way he would go over the past few weeks. 

His brows furrow, he searches for an answer. “Maybe you need to back off a little, give him some time."

"I'm trying, but it's hard. I cocked it up, Q. The last time I saw him, I said a lot. I was kind of an asshole, actually. I don't know... I was surprised, upset.. He told me he wanted to cool things off. I panicked, I suppose. I told him everything but what he really needed to hear."

Q tenses up again. “...Like what?...”

James is silent for a while, thinking. But he finally speaks. "It’s been a long time since I thought anybody cared about me, just for _me_. Oh, I know I’m a handy tool. There’s an entire team of people dedicated to me 24/7 just to make sure I can function like the killing machine I am. But that’s not what I _need_. I need someone to talk to me like I’m a _person_. He does that. He surprises me all the time, always says or does things I don't expect. Sees right through all my bullshit, that’s for damn sure, doesn’t let me get away with any of it. He can disarm me with just a word or a look, shit, he takes liberties with me no one else would dare and doesn't even know it. And, Christ, he can make me laugh. It's been a long time since I laughed so much."

“That's…um, some good data...” Q stutters, so pleasantly surprised he’s nearly tongue tied.

James presses on. “Shit, I said a _lot_. Particularly about what turns me on. I mean, all that was true, but I didn’t say the most important thing. That it’s _him_ that turns me on, just him. Just who he is, what goes on in that head of his. When I can see him thinking a million miles per second, figuring it all out, I can’t take my eyes off him. When he unlocks a door or starts a car or blackouts a whole city for me from 5,000 miles away, it just gives me a hard-on…”

James stops, realizes he’s giving away the game. Then picks up the thread again. “Maybe I didn't even know what I felt. Didn’t know what I had. I didn’t think I could ever feel like this again.” Again, the ice clinks. “Until I knew I was losing him. Then shit got real. And I got drunk."

Q’s breathing quickens. He hadn't even known he needed to hear all that. The missing puzzle piece falls into place. His heart warms, melts, oozes into the cold, empty space in his chest that had been there all these past few weeks. “Maybe you need to let him come to you.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“100%.”

James sighs, despondent. “I hope you’re right. For the good of the mission, I mean.”

“Of course. For the mission."

Q can hear the sound of shifting on a mattress. There’s a long pause before James speaks again. “Don’t ever do what I do, Q.”

“Do what?”

“Kill people. Seduce people for work.”

Q hesitates for a moment, adjusting to the sudden new train of thought. “I believe I kissed you in a bar. That was for work.”

James snorts again. “Was it? I asked for you. Specifically. Q Branch doesn't usually do the seduction work. That was entirely for my own benefit. I just wanted to kiss you. I...had a feeling. That’s all.”

Q's heart speeds up, his desire flaring at the mention of that kiss. Leading to thoughts of a Turkish hamam. His office. The hot compartment of a train car in Romania. He shuts his eyes, remembering. He’s almost shocked by how much he misses him.

The cubes clink again. Q imagines him taking a drink; vodka, most likely. He sees a closeup in his mind of James's mouth on the edge of the tumbler, clear liquid swirling, wetting his lips. The constriction of James’s throat as he swallows. Maybe there’s a little bit of stubble on his jaw, maybe his normally perfect hair is a little out of place. Maybe he’s stretched out on the bed, maybe his shirt is unbuttoned and open; Q imagines it’s white, linen, wrinkled from wear. Maybe he isn’t wearing anything at all...

Q’s free hand slides down over his stomach, under the waistband of his pajamas.

“God, Q” James says, still a slight slur to his words. “Don’t ever make anyone else feel what I feel when I kiss you. Don’t do it. Just don't kiss anyone else, ok?"

An aching need is rising that he’s desperate to fill. Q’s fingers close over what he's seeking, feels himself growing harder under his touch. Begins to stroke himself.

“What if I have to?”

“We’re not all cut out for this. You’re not. You're...different. There’s something about you that’s almost...innocent.” He almost chokes on his own choice of words. “God, that sounds stupid. But that’s the only word I can think of. I'd hate for you to change. You’re just a decent person. Despite all your sass and criminal record and kinks, I mean.” He pauses. “I'm just guessing at that last one. Shit, I hope I’m right about that one.”

Q strokes himself harder, imagines it is James who is touching him now. Imagines a few kinky things he might like to do with James. “You could be."

James groans. “I fucking knew it.” The sound of a mattress shifting again, as if James is rolling over. “There’s no mission. I’m talking about you, you know that, right?”

“I got that much already." Q’s voice cracks as he grips harder, tries to control the shudders that threaten to erupt, almost panting. “I work in intelligence, too, you know.”

It's quiet on the other end of the line for a few moments.

"Are you touching yourself, Q?”

Q’s face flames, but he's too far gone to care. He _wants_ James to know. "Yes.”

James groans again. “I wish I was doing that for you instead. I wish I could take your cock in my mouth right now.”

Q’s hand moves faster, harder. He tries to stifle a moan, fails. James keeps talking, his voice low, rough.

“I want to run my hands all over that perfect little ass again, God, I’ve thought about that every day. I remember how you felt in my hand. I want to feel what you're like in my mouth. I want to know what it feels like to be inside you, to come inside you...”

“Fuck, James...” Q listens raptly, his eyes shut tight. He can almost feel James on top of him, his weight holding him down. Images flash through his mind.

_Hot stone warm skin hard muscle slick hands wet mouths rough jaw soft hair pure bliss._

Muscles contract, pulling in to his core; he’s shaking now, almost whining in need, not able to stop even if he wanted to.

“I want to hear you, know what you sound like when I take you apart. I want you to come for me now, Q. I want to hear you…”

James doesn’t have to wait a second longer. Q complies and throws his head back, his hips buck up; he gives a loud, long, unrestrained shout of profanity as jolts of pleasure run through him and he drops the phone on the floor. His mind goes blank and he just _feels_. His own hot come shoots surprisingly far over the top of his hand, stripes all the way up and across his chest as spasm after spasm wracks through him.

When he finally stops coming, he takes a few moments to catch his breath, dazed.

And then he has a moment of supreme clarity.

 _Why the hell is he in London when James is in Mykonos_.

He realizes the phone is on the floor, still on. He picks it up, hesitantly speaks into it, breath ragged.

“James. Are you still there?”

“Still here.” Another long pause. “Fuck, Q. You’re killing me, you know that? I wish you were here. I wish you were here right now so I could do that to you. I'll bet I could make you scream like that all night.” He sounds almost angry now. “I can’t do this anymore. If you really don’t love me back then I just can't do this anymore. I've got to go. I’m sorry."

Q blinks in surprise. "What?! No-"

But he’s too late. James rings off abruptly. Q stares at the phone in his left hand, which is dead on the other end. Then looks at his right hand, still holding himself. Now down at the mussed front of the old black t-shirt he sleeps in. Wonders how he can feel so good in the exact same moment that things can go so bad.

Something James said is rattling around in his head, begging for attention. _Love me back_. He’s not even sure he heard him right. Pretty sure a sober James would not have let it slip like that. But since he did...the ramifications begin to sink in.

Q lays back on his pillows, stares at the ceiling. He practically growls deep in his throat, frustrated beyond belief. He makes a sudden decision and angrily swipes at James's number again with his thumb, rings him back.

James answers immediately and starts babbling before Q can get a word in.

"I shouldn't have just rung off like that. I'm sorry I bothered you again, I'm just really drunk. I don't know why I just can't leave you alone. I’m sorry."

"James-"

"I'll do what you want. I'll back off." A pause. "I'm sorry, ok?”

Q thinks he’s never heard anything so terrible as James Bond saying he’s sorry to him. Sorry for what? For being the bigger man and making the first move? For doing his job? For wanting to please him? For agreeing to give him time and space? It was too much. Q feels a deep and fierce sense of love for James wash over him, stronger than ever. Leave him? Not bloody likely.

“ _James_.” Q finally manages to cut in. “I'm the one who should say I'm sorry. _Not you_.” His words begin to tumble out, flowing freely for the first time in a long, long time. “I was wrong. _Wrong_. It’s not for the best, keeping it professional. That was a stupid, stupid idea. Stupid. Forget I ever mentioned it. I do want you, James. I’ve always wanted you, from the first moment we ever met. Give _me_ another chance.”

Finally there was silence on the other end.

_Fuck it._

Q draws in a deep breath. "Stay where you are. I’m coming to you."

_There is only one thing Q wants now. He wants James, and nothing else matters. Let the world burn._


	13. October - Mykonos - Thursday

Q walks out into the bright Mykonos terminal. His messenger bag is overstuffed with some clothes and his laptop, draped across his back, strap diagonal over his chest. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, his converse sneakers, a black t-shirt, light black leather jacket. He’s a little bit shaky. He hates planes, absolutely hates them. That small charter plane from Athens should actually be illegal, it's so small. But it’s the fastest way here. And he needed to get here, fast.

His eyes adjust to the light, and he picks him out of the crowd right away. _Oh, god._ Q is momentarily struck dumb by seeing him again. Skin tanned from days of hiding out in Mykonos, dark blonde hair now glints with sunkissed highlights. White, wrinkled linen shirt, unbuttoned to halfway down. Brown leather jacket. Khaki pants rolled up at the cuffs. _Flip flops_.

Q walks over to him and stops in front of James, can’t take his eyes off him. James flashes him that half smile he loves so much.

"Q.”

“James.”

Their greetings are simple, but the looks they exchange are anything but. James moves closer, his eyes shift down to Q’s lips, but he hesitates, stops just short of kissing him in the middle of the crowded terminal. Instead, James briefly touches his forehead to his, then he moves his lips closer to Q’s ear, his face brushing against Q’s cheek. “Thought you’d never get here.”

Q can feel that he’s freshly shaved, his cologne is like cedar and bergamot. If James was ever hung over after that phone call, right now he shows no trace of it.

James takes hold of the strap and gently lifts the messenger bag off and over Q’s head, taking care not to knock his glasses, and slings it over his own shoulder. “Is this all you have?”

“Do I need any more?” Q asks, deliberately flirty. But his heart his knocking wildly in his chest.

“No.” James smiles again. “You won’t need much at all. Not for the itinerary I have planned, anyway.”

Suddenly he crooks an arm around Q’s neck, pulls him forward in a quick, fierce hug. Then they stand there like idiots, smiling at each other, until James finally breaks the gaze. He motions with his head towards the exit. “Ready to go home?

Q nods. _Home_. That word sounds surprisingly good to him.

They walk out to the motorbike he’s parked out front. James ties the messenger bag down on the back. Then James gets on, and Q gets on behind him. They are both experienced riders; they both know how this works, how to position themselves for maximum leverage and enjoyment. Q leans into James's back as the motorbike pulls out and merges into the traffic, his chest pressed tight against him, legs spread wide to either side of James’s hips. Q’s hands are locked across the brown leather jacket covering James’s chest; the insides of his thighs are warm where they touch through the fabric of their trousers.

The sparse, rocky landscape flies by them as the motorbike climbs higher into the hills above the harbor. The sea is different shades of blue from turquoise to azure to almost dark navy; the hills are covered in stones and small trees twisted and sculpted by the wind, the vegetation drying and going dormant for the coming winter months. Right now the days are still warm, but the evenings are cool.

The sun is just starting to hang low in the late afternoon sky and the light is rich and heavy, accenting the island’s buildings that are cube shaped and brilliantly white against the background of blues and browns, greens and golds. The air is scented with smoke from kitchen grills and wild aromatic herbs and grasses. Boats dot the surface of the water and a row of beautiful, immensely expensive yachts are docked at the port, glinting in the sunlight below them.

Q feels the stream of air fluttering against his clothes where they are loose, his hair is blowing wildly in the wind. He lays his cheek against the leather of James’s jacket, seeking some protection from the elements. He shuts his eyes, giving over to the sensations. The vibration of the tires against the road spread all through his body, especially through his cock, already half hard and growing harder as it rubs up against James’s arse; he wonders if James can feel it pressing into him. His own legs feel stretched, almost straining to fit around James. He literally aches for him, there is a fire inside him, burning.

He leans in unison with James as they round corner after corner, the road snaking up one hill and down another. He’s found it usually takes some practice to get it right between driver and passenger the first time they ride, but they don't seem to need it. He loves that they are finally working together instead of against each other; reading each other’s body language, communicating through the subtle tense of a muscle, the almost imperceptible shift of weight. Perfectly in balance. He wonders what else they might get right the first try.

At the hotel, James parks the motorbike. He waits for Q to get off first; Q is reluctant to loosen his arms locked around him. Q looks up at the hotel, amazed by how stunning it is, taking it all in with wide eyes. He’s never been to Mykonos before. The secluded villa is long and flat, set high up but deep into the hillside, boxy and brilliantly whitewashed. Colorful flowers nestled in pots and growing on trellises stand out against the pale walls. Each room has a terrace with a private pool in front, view open to the sea, but divided from neighboring rooms by high walls on either side for privacy.

“Do you like it?” James asks.

Q looks back at him. James is standing on the other side of the motorbike with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, watching him intently. James is trying to act cool but Q can see in his eyes he is a little uncertain underneath it all.

“Like it?” Q says, catching and holding James’s gaze, his eyes raking over him now, taking in the white linen shirt, the windblown hair, the sweetly pensive look on James’s world-weary face that says he hopes that Q is pleased, and it utterly slays him. “I _love_ it. It’s beautiful.” And he’s not really talking about the hotel anymore.

James comes around the motorbike to stand in front of him; now his eyes, the same color of the sea, are roving over Q, scorching him.

Q’s heart is pounding. He’s so close to him now, finally. His nerves are on edge. It won’t take much to set him off when James finally touches him like he wants him to. _And he wants_. He desperately wants to get this right, wants to move this forward.

“Things were said on a train. Things were said on the phone." Q is flirty again, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “Do you remember what you said?”

James smiles just a little. “More or less.” Deliberately, maddeningly prevaricating.

“Well, _I_ remember everything you said. _Every. Last. Word_.” The sass in him, heated up by James’s smoldering gaze, boils over. He can’t help poking the beast to see what James will say, what he might do, what he might admit to. “Rash things were said. _Rash_. Downright reckless.”

James's lips quirk in a half smile, a hand reaches out and curves around Q’s arse, pulls him close. Mimics his dramatic enunciation. “Well, it’s not really _rash_ if you mean it.”

James leans forward, lays his lips just under Q’s ear, nuzzling into his curls. It feels like James is breathing him in, and Q loves it. Q feels slightly faint, his voice is getting strained as he speaks. “You’ve got some hella big trash talk to live up to, mister. Are you going to take me back to your hotel room, or what?”

Q’s words trigger an immediate response in James. He roughly pulls him closer, his lips roam over his neck, up over his jaw, to his lips; Q shivers, arches in response, all the more aroused by knowing they are still in the parking lot of the hotel; anyone could be watching.

James finally pulls back just slightly, his lips just an inch away. “Are you sure, Q? Sure you know what you’re doing? You’re starting something, and once you start it, there’s no going back.”

Q is the one feeling rash now, feels a little high on the rush of desire he feels for James. He’d do anything for him right now, anything. He reaches up and holds his hands on either side of James’s face, looks right into his eyes. “Let’s go upstairs and _fuck_.”

James swears under his breath, does not waste a single second more. He grabs Q’s hand and pulls him through the parking lot, into the hotel and through the lobby to the stairs. They try to keep it together, not act too depraved while in public, but once they reach the privacy of the stairwell, the veneer of civilization is gone. James pushes him against a wall, pulls up his shirt and runs his hands under the fabric and over the bare flesh underneath.

“I think I’m going to die if I don’t have you,” James says, and they kiss each other like feral creatures, palm each other over the front of their trousers, run their hands over arses, shove their hands under waistbands and shirts to touch whatever they can, neither holding back anything, not anymore.

James grabs Q’s hand again and begins to haul him up the short flight of stairs, footsteps echoing in the cemented corridor, grunts of pleasure and exertion mixed. Their progress is not very fast as they stop every few stairs to come back together again, to touch each other, to kiss, unwilling to part even for the necessary time it takes to get to the top.

The stairwell door opens under the weight of Q’s back pressed against it, and they spill into the plushly carpeted hallway under the light of the dimly glowing EXIT sign. They stagger a few doors down, then James digs the keycard out of his back pocket, blindly flails out with his hand to find the door lock, takes his eyes away just long enough to shove the card in; it turns green and he opens it and backs in, pulling Q in with him. James throws the messenger bag down to the side. The door snicks shut behind them.

Now in each other’s arms, lips still on the other's, they turn in slow circles like they are on a dance floor without music; only now they let each other go just long enough to toss aside leather jackets, pull a t-shirt off over a head, unbutton a linen shirt and strip it off, kick off shoes to bang against walls and chairs; all their clothes litter the floor like an obstacle course.

They reach the side of the bed, nude. Q feels like he’s in an altered state again, lightheaded, pushed there now by the ferocity of his desire for James. James suddenly grabs him around the waist, bodily picks him up. Q finds himself in the air and then the air rushes out of his lungs as his arse lands solidly on the bed behind him, then his back; James comes down to lay on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. Q doesn’t think he’s ever been lifted by anyone before like that in his life, doesn’t think he’s ever felt such a heady sensation of being so completely under the control of someone else, but he’s quickly getting the idea he’s going to learn a lot more about that real fast.

Q feels tense under him, at first, anticipation and nervousness coursing through him. Q’s legs are bent slightly at the knees to either side of James; James reaches down and physically pushes Q’s thighs apart wider to settle his hips between them, his confident hands taking hold of him and positioning him in a way that feels so cocksure and experienced that Q feels a little faint again. Their cocks are touching now, side by side, pressed between them.

James hands are at either side of Q’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. He’s propped up on his elbows, keeping his full weight off of Q’s chest. He leans down, kisses him, takes his time. Q moves restlessly under him, face flushed, sweat breaking out all over him. He moves his hips sinuously against James, desperately seeking friction. James has to pull his lips away to let out a groan as Q keeps moving underneath him. James slowly pushes back against him, cock sliding against cock. He looks down at Q.

“You’re so beautiful when you let go like this. Like something beautiful I'll just break if I touch it, I'm almost afraid to sometimes." Rough fingertips sweep across Q’s cheekbones, a thumb brushes across his lips. “Honest to God, I don’t know how I got so lucky. I don't know why you waste your time on such a hot-headed son of a bitch like me.”

“Maybe I like it,” Q says breathlessly, jolts of pleasure running through him as James’s hips slowly keep moving against him, pressing down on him, pressing him more into the mattress. “Maybe I like you just the way you are, you stupid, reckless, hot-headed son of a bitch.”

James’s eyes are dark with desire, his lips quirk into a smile. “Well, maybe I like _you_ just the way you are, you mouthy, arrogant little hipster tart, all up in my grill all the time.”

Q is just as turned on by his words as James is by his. They understand each other, share their own particular language of aggressive affection that somehow allows them to express things they otherwise could not. 

“Well. _Good_.” Q finally speaks, fakes a businesslike tone, his voice uneven. “We like each other. Glad that’s settled, then.”

“ _Good_ ,” James mimics again. He leans into Q’s neck, nuzzles at the sensitive spot under his ear, working him until Q is squirming underneath him again.

“ _Fine_ ,” Q volleys back, practically panting.

“ _Fine._ ” James pulls back again to look down at him, smiling, amused, and Q smiles back.

Q slides his arms around James’s neck, pulls his face down to his, kisses him long, hard, deep. James sinks down flat against him, chest to chest. They break apart again, both breathing heavily.

James grows quiet then, both hands still to either side of Q’s face. He holds it still between his strong fingertips, studies it, tilts it as if looking for the right angle of light, and Q just lets him, wondering what he’s about.

“There,” James finally says, satisfaction purring through his voice, a slight smile on his lips. “Right there. _That’s_ the look. That’s how you used to look at me. Before I cocked it all up. Before Sharm. ”

Q blinks. Blurts out the words without thinking.

“Of course it is, you moron. I’m looking at you _like I love you_. Because I do. I loved you before Sharm. I love you now. I cocked things up just as much or more so let’s just forget all that. But I never stopped loving you. You think I stopped but I never stopped.”

Then Q goes quiet, realizes what he just said, mortified. James is staring at him, completely still. A few more seconds of silence go by. “Shit. I just said that out loud, didn't I?”

James looks like he’s in shock. Then he suddenly comes to life. Something crosses his face, Q can’t quite place it, something between lust and love and amusement and wonder, but there is also anger simmering there. He’s breathing hard, his hands still holding his face still. Q can feel James’s hands are shaking, his voice is rough when he speaks.

“Just who do you think you are, anyway? Coming into my life and turning it all upside down, making me lose control. I break all my rules for you. I always crack first. All for you. _Only for you_.” He still sounds a little angry, some kind of inner conflict raging. “I wasn’t looking for this.”

“Well, get in line,” Q shoots back. “I wasn’t looking for this, either.”

Q knows what James is feeling, what he’s trying to say. He hadn’t been looking to be so painfully, so sweetly, so terrifyingly split open wide by falling in love, either. He doesn’t even care if James is able to say it back to him right now. He already knows, in his heart, that James loves him; James has already shown it in a hundred different ways.

James’s fingers are practically fisted in his hair, but his tight grip is loosening. “I told myself I was never going to do this to myself again. Never again.”

“Yeah, me too. Just to clarify our positions on this.” Q lays his hands flat against James’s chest, his fingertips trailing through the light matt of hair there. He can feel James’s heart hammering, fast.

James’s voice is losing steam. “I was doing just fine on my own, you know.”

“Me, too. Just fucking awesome,” Q says, sarcastically.

James looks down at Q, and the corner of his mouth twitches. After a few long moments, there is a subtle shift in the air. James seems to relax, sinking into Q again. He takes hold of one of Q’s hands, cradles it against his mouth, kisses his palm. “Yet here we are,” he finally says. “I _do_ talk a lot of trash. And you sure as hell couldn’t make up your mind about me. And yet, despite all that, here you are, in my arms.”

Q looks steadily back up at him. “Maybe some things are just meant to be.”

_Fuck it._

Other things were just meant to be _done_. Q reaches down between them, takes both their cocks in his hand, strokes them up and down. James jerks at his touch, swears under his breath. James rises up off him, sits back on his haunches in a kneeling position in front of him, Q’s thighs still to either side of him.

“No more talking,” James finally says, his voice teasing but also thick with desire. “Unless you feel like shouting out my name. Uncontrollable swearing or moaning would be acceptable, too.”

James then just takes a moment to admire Q, his eyes roving over his chest, and downwards. He reaches out with both hands and traces the row of ribs just visible under his skin, fingertips rising up and down as they ride over each individual rib like a row of piano keys, as if in slow motion. Still moving, his fingertips angle downwards and inwards, tracing over the indentation of where Q's ab muscles, so clearly defined like a V, disappear into the thatch between his legs. Q’s cock is hard, erect, the pale flesh starkly outlined against the darker, curly hair.

"Let me tell you what I see when I look at you," James says. "Beautiful. Strong. Graceful. Hidden depths that I could drown in. Like my own piece of art I'll never get tired of looking at."

James grasps him in a circle of his fingers, squeezes firmly. Q’s eyes shut, his erection jutting out in front of them. He takes the folds of his loose foreskin between his fingers, pulls it forward, plays with it, pinching and kneading and pulling on it with gentle pressure; then rolls it back to expose the head, precum already pooling there. He slides his finger over it, spreading around the slickness, his hand gliding over the sensitive tip. Q cries out, a bolt of pleasure shooting through him. James strokes him up and down, Q hips begin jerking, wanting to pump into his hand. James leans forward, holds him down with one hand low on his abdomen, continues to stroke him. Q is about going crazy, wanting to move his hips but he can’t.

James lets him go gently. He moves backwards from him a little more, just enough so that when he leans forward again, he takes Q's long, hard length in his mouth, lips closing over him; hot, wet, tight. Q tries to arch off the bed, but again James holds him down with a strong hand. James runs his tongue down the length of his shaft, takes his balls into his mouth, sucks lightly before he lets them go and Q moans again. He returns to the tip, rolls the skin down just a little with a downward stroke. Then he does something that makes Q go mad, makes him throw his head back against the mattress, makes him screw his eyes shut tight. James slips his tongue underneath the loose foreskin and swirls it around the tip, over and over, tonguing and sucking and swirling until Q feels so overwhelmed, so sensitive it almost begins to hurt and at that point James takes his mouth off him.

James leans over him again, across his chest. His hands cover Q’s which are to either side of his head, their fingers lace together. His lips come down to claim his, and Q feels like he is in Chicago all over again, the way James had grabbed his thighs while sitting on that barstool and shoved them apart to make room for him to get close, the way he demanded that Q give over to him with his lips and hands and body; the way James is demanding that now. And Q just sighs, breathing his spirit into him again as James’s mouth covers his. He may have started this, but James is going to finish it. James is going to wreck him, he knows it. Just like he told him he would, on a train somewhere in Romania.

When James finally lifts off him, Q's eyes are still shut. He feels a wave of cool air settle over him as the heat of James’s body on his dissipates. He hears the nightstand drawer open and shut. He feels warm, strong hands hook under his knees. James pulls him up against him, placing one leg to either side of him, still kneeling between his thighs. Q’s hips are resting just on James’s knees, canted up just slightly. Q feels so vulnerable like this, spread wide, sweating, panting, moaning. But he trusts James completely.

James's is sitting up straight, runs his hands up and down the soft skin at the inside of his thighs, caressing him there, getting him used to being touched, moving closer and closer until one finger brushes against his entrance, lightly circles it, moves away again.

“Are you ok, luv?” James asks, gently.

Q nods, that’s all he can do, he doesn’t trust his voice.

There is the click of a plastic cap, the sound of a bottle squeezing. A moment later Q feels a finger at his entrance, spreading cool, slick wetness; circling it, lightly pressing against it. Circling it again, then pressing in. Q cries out at the sensation, his hips lifting slightly off James's knees. James eases off, then does it again, presses in a little more this time. Q screws his eyes shut even tighter, his body doesn’t know whether to fight or welcome this intrusion. James pushes in again, this time with a little more force, and his finger slides past the tight ring and Q cries out again.

“Oh, god. Oh, god, James,” he pants. “That feels so good.”

James pushes in slowly, pushes in deeper. James pulls his finger back, all the way out. And when he comes back in, he’s added another. The extra girth adds more stretch, Q grits his teeth, pushes back against his hand. There was more of an initial burn this time, but god, once he slides in past it, it feels amazing. James slowly works his fingers in and out, slowly opening him up, adds a third.

“Doing ok?” James asks again, softly. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“God, no,” Q babbles. “Not enough. I need more. I need you, inside me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” James almost hisses under his breath. “I can't wait to be inside you.”

He feels the fingers slowly withdraw, and he nearly keens with the sudden emptiness. James hooks his arms under his knees again, pulls him even closer against him; Q’s hands clutch at the duvet covers as James repositions him just where he wants him.

There is a moment of quiet as James goes completely still. Q can practically hear his own heart beating, can hear and feel the blades of an overhead fan push air down on him that he had not even noticed before, smells sweat and come and cologne, his senses are all on overdrive.

And then he feels it, the tip of James’s cock, pushing slowly into him. Slowly, god, so slowly; the burn is immediate, James is large, thick and long. James takes his time, pulling out and pushing in, incrementally making progress, listening to Q for cues until he makes it past the initial resistance and slides in a few inches deeper all at once; Q’s hips rise up and he screams, he actually screams out James’s name, it feels so incredible.

James's hands are on his hips, fingertips digging in so hard they might leave bruises, his voice is hoarse. “Oh, god, Q, you should see yourself. You should see what I see…me disappearing into you...”

Q is going crazy, the feeling of being filled so slowly and fully almost overwhelming. Once James knows he is almost fully in, that Q can take him comfortably, he leans forward again, driving deeper into him as he moves. He's now resting flat on top of him, hips between Q’s spread legs, lips on his neck, his earlobe; James's hand is stroking over his cock again, causing sensations in multiple zones of his body all at once.

James's hips thrust forward one last time, sinks into Q as far as he can go then stops again, both cock and hand motionless for a good long time, balls flush against Q, just letting Q feel his size within him, feeling himself in Q.

Q moans, his fingers kneading the duvet, impaled by James and unable to move under his weight; his face is hot, the fabric sticky sweaty against his skin. Their eyes are locked; James grabs one of Q’s hands with his free hand, laces their fingers again, holds onto it tight.

“Fuck, James,” Q hisses, panting in small quick breaths, crazed by the feel of the heavy body on top of him, the incredible fullness inside him, desperate for something to happen, for something to get him off. “Fuck me, I need you to _fuck me_.”

James complies. He starts to fuck into him, but slowly, pulling out but not all the way, then sliding all the way back in, balls deep. Always slowly, not wanting to hurt him.

James's hips undulate as he drives into Q over and over, moving like a wave on the surface of a lake, setting a slow, steady, unrelenting rhythm, James’s hand still stroking Q's cock, lips on his neck, his mouth, everywhere he can reach. Q’s hands are twisting in the covers, he knows he is moaning, babbling nonsense, his hips bucking up in time with James’s slow thrusts but he’s held down and _fuck_ he wants to move, to thrash, but he can’t move he’s weighed down and he’s going mad his mind is emptying and his world is narrowing down to the feel of a hot thick cock inside him, dragging slowly over his sweet spot, a hand on his cock, working him. He can’t believe he ever thought he could live without this, ever thought he could walk away from this. They are getting this right, so fucking right, the first time, their bodies seem made for each other, fit together perfectly.

All at once, Q feels everything inside him tighten. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck he's going to come._ Tension pools deliciously in his groin, his legs begin to shake violently, and he ignites in James’s hand, the intoxicating feel of James still inside him. But this time he doesn’t scream; this is so intense, so powerful, that although his mouth opens, no sound comes out at all. His back arches off the bed stiffly, his eyes roll back in his head, the breath catches in his chest, a flash of white bursts behind his eyes; he feels like he nearly loses consciousness for just a moment, his come shooting out in hot, ropey bursts all over James’s hands, his own stomach, all over James’s chest, the duvet.

When Q is finally done, James pulls out, strokes himself off just a few times and then he comes, too, hot and thick all over his hand again, on their stomachs, their chests, all over the already ruined duvet, collapsing on top of him with a moaning, growling shout that goes on for the whole length of time he’s coming and then some, driving them both down flat into the duvet.

It takes them each a few minutes to catch their breath. James is resting his forehead at the juncture of Q’s neck and shoulder. His hands, sticky with sweat and lube and come, are on either side of Q’s head, tangled in his hair, his hands seem always in his hair. When James finally raises his head, he plants a long and deep kiss on Q’s lips, then rolls off him, strands of thickening come stretching between them, and collapses again next to him. They both lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling.

“Fucking hell,” James finally says, his voice a little weak. Then he turns his head to look at Q, a look of wonder on his face.

Q can’t say anything at all, but reaches out with a hand and touches James’s face with his fingertips. And smiles.

They roll towards each other at the same time, arms and legs tangling in the late afternoon light of the room.

_Hnnnnnggghh. For once, Q thinks nothing more than that._


	14. October - Mykonos - Friday

It’s afternoon. The sun is shining into their room, slanting warm rays onto the bed where they are lounging. One whole end of the room is a giant wall of glass, floor to ceiling windows with sliding glass doors leading out to the terrace and the pool. Q’s fingers fly over his laptop keyboard propped up on his stomach. He’s on his back, his head at the foot of the bed, wearing only his boxers. James is sitting up against the headboard, shirtless and in sweats, just starting to read a book. On the history of naval warfare, Q notes. Q’s feet are resting in James’s lap; James lays one hand on an ankle, strokes the skin there, almost absent-mindedly. Q loves the feeling, loves the easy way they touch each other now.

They’re taking a well-earned break. So far today, they slept in late. They swam in their pool. They left the room in ruins with room service dishes littering the table tops; clothes and shoes strewn everywhere. The bed is a wreck; the duvet, useless and in the way, has been kicked off to the floor. The white sheets are rumpled and twisted, no doubt covered with the evidence of their activities which have been repeated several times more, insatiably hungry for each other. But Q likes it, likes lying in the middle of their wanton destruction.

James suddenly sighs in frustration. Q looks at him over the top of his laptop. James moves the book around in front of him; higher then lower, closer then farther away. James’s hair is mussy, the short fringe flopping down over his forehead in a charmingly school-boyish way, rather than slicked back like usual. His features are smooth, relaxed; not sharp like at work, when his eyes narrow and his mouth sets in a grim line as he surveys the daily wreckage of the shitty world they live in. He looks young, like what he might have been ten or fifteen years ago. Before he took on the weight of this particular shitty world, before he became a 00.

James reaches into the nightstand drawer, opens up a small leather case and takes out a pair of reading glasses, puts them on reluctantly. Q’s eyes open wide. _Holy hell, James is wearing glasses_. The dark, stylish frames set off his light hair. He looks like he walked out of an Armani ad, what with that tousled hair, that muscled shirtless chest, the sweats riding low on his lean hips. A study in casual elegance, raw power, barely contained animal magnetism. Q feels butterflies in his stomach. He lowers the lid of his laptop for a better view.

“You-” he starts to say.

James holds up a finger. “Not a word. Not a single word about this to anyone.” He pushes his glasses farther up his nose, regains his dignity, repositions his book with determination. “They’re new. I just need them for reading.”

Q can’t help but smile; tries not to smile. Fails. His heart does flippy things.

“I can still hit a moving target at a thousand yards without them, I’ll have you know,” James grumbles.

“I was only going to say,” Q cuts in smoothly, “how handsome and distinguished you look in your glasses. I’d _definitely_ hit that. Very hot.”

James has to crack a smile now. “ _Your_ glasses just make you look kinky. When you wear those cardigans and those tweed suits, you’re such a sexy librarian. Or a hot teacher. I _always_ want to hit that.”

Q resists an urge to throw his laptop to the side immediately, to crawl up that lean body and latch onto those lips, play with that hair, get closer to those glasses. But he doesn’t. There is something so intimate about what they’re doing now, he wants to hold onto it. They’re just doing...nothing. Just hanging. Sometimes talking. Sometimes existing in comfortable silence. Reading. Just barely touching, and it feels powerful.

Q settles with just looking, soaking him in. “I don’t really need mine for reading, mostly for distance. But honestly, my eyesight is terrible. If I lose my glasses in the zombie apocalypse, I’m a goner for sure.”

This is a thought that has actually bothered him quite a lot, in his nerdy universe, in the many times he has imagined the end of the world. Actually considered Lasik surgery because of it, just in case.

James regards him thoughtfully. “Well, then. If we lose our glasses, the situation seems clear to me. We’ll have to stick together, right to the bitter end. Compensate for each other’s weaknesses. In the apocalypse, you can read my book out loud to me, and I’ll watch your back, pick off the zombies with my rifle before they get close. Deal?”

Q sighs, melting again. He loves it when James speaks his language, talks nerdy to him. “Deal.”

Q knows he is looking at James with eyes like a puppy. Adoring, smitten, eager to follow at his heels wherever he goes. James knows it, too. But James just smiles, strokes his ankle again, encircles it with his fingers, just lightly holding on, his hand hot and heavy on his skin. He goes back to reading.

Only half a minute goes by before James looks up at him again, a slightly unsure look on his face. "Really, you mean it? The glasses look ok?"

Q reaches out, lays a hand on the leg stretched out next to him. "Really."

A contended looks settles over James's face again. He squeezes Q's ankle slightly, then goes back to reading his book.

_Bliss. That’s what this is, bliss. I could get used to this, Q thinks. Maybe for the rest of my life._

***

It’s evening. They actually leave the hotel room. James insists on taking him out for dinner. And drinks. Something about wanting to show him the sights. This is just another one of his neighborhoods, Q presumes. Q's just happy to be with him, doing anything. James is all gentlemanly, holding open doors for him.

The restaurant is just at the bottom of the hill below the hotel. They walk there, the streets narrow, the white walls of the buildings close in around them like a maze. On the steps in front of a vivid green door, a calico cat soaks up the last of the sun’s warmth still left in the stone. James is in grey suit trousers with a casual black polo shirt stretched tight over his chest, jacket slung over his shoulder. Q is wearing the only other things he brought with him; his black leather jacket and a crisp white button-down shirt over a pair of soft grey cotton trousers.

They go for drinks first. The bar is nearly empty, just a few tables of people talking quietly. There is a dance floor, empty now, at the far end, a sad and worn disco ball rotating in the air, throwing flecks of light against the walls. They stand side by side at the bar counter and order drinks; Q decides to order the vodka martini that James seems to love so much.

James reaches into a pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Flips open the lid of the pack, tips it over and lets two slide out into his hand. James puts them both between his lips, strikes a match with a crack and a flare and lights them both, holds them clamped there while he waves his hand to put out the match. He hands one to Q.

Q looks down at the cigarette, can see the wetness from James’s mouth still on the filter and that oddly, erotically pleases him. He lifts it up, his mouth closes around it. His eyes slide over and he stares at James’s lips, contemplates their chiseled masculine beauty for moment. He looks up further, directly into James’s eyes. James is looking at him intently, like he often does.

James reaches out, traces a finger down the side of his neck. Slips under the open collar of his shirt, traces along his collarbone. Q shivers.

"Glad you came?" James asks, quietly.

Q raises an eyebrow provocatively. "Which time?"

James rolls his eyes. "Tease. _Every_ time. But I was talking about coming to Mykonos."

Q leans into him, hip to hip. "Wouldn't have missed it for anything." Q pauses. "Why did we wait so long, anyway?"

"Well, to be honest, I was pretty much ready to go right away. _You're_ the one who friendzoned _me_."

"Shit. That's true. My bad."

Music starts playing in the background, it's something jazzy. Q feels playful, lighthearted. Q's suddenly reminded of Chicago. He balances his cigarette on the ashtray. He turns to James, lays his hands on his hips, pulls him forward suddenly, much to James's surprise.

"Kiss me," Q says dramatically, imitating James, smiling with as much seductive power as he can muster. "And put your back into it, will you?"

James laughs quietly. "With pleasure."

James is leaning in to kiss him, Q is tipping forward. Then James’s cell phone rings, startles them both, they can feel it vibrating in James’s pocket between them.

“Well, that’s inconvenient,” James says with a heavy sigh, pulls back reluctantly and takes out his phone. James looks at the number, but doesn't answer and lets it go to voicemail. Q now notices he squints a little as he does. _How long have you needed glasses, you beautiful, vain prat_ , Q wonders to himself, indulgently, watching him dreamily, wonders how he didn't notice that before.

A somewhat guilty frown crosses James's face. “Well, serves me right.” He looks back up at Q. “It’s M.”

Q frowns, too. “Trouble?”

“It’s possible.” James looks rueful. “It’s possible I may have ignored his calls. For a few weeks.”

“James. Tell me you didn’t.”

“Well, I felt I needed some medical leave.” He takes Q's hand, places it on his heart.  Smiles a little, leans in towards his ear and whispers. “Something was broken. But it’s better now.”

Q melts, gratefully feels the strong pulse under his fingers, very much in working order. But he pretends to be stern. “You’d better ring him back before he fires you.”

James snorts. “He’s not going to fire me. Nobody fires or retires a 00, we just die with our boots on. I don’t give a fuck what he thinks.” James pauses then. “I only care what _you_ think.”

Q suddenly understands, puts two and two together. And it’s so romantic his knees get a little wobbly. “Is that what this is about. Is this, like, a date? Dinner? Drinks? Acting all gentlemanly, caring about my opinion? Are you _wooing_ me? Is that what you’re doing, _wooing_ me?”

James just looks at him. “About time, wouldn’t you say? Should have done a better job of that, long ago.”

Q just has to smile. But then he has to laugh. It seems a little late, considering all the passionate things they’ve done in the past twenty-four hours, that is. On every possible surface in their room. And some almost impossible.

“This is not a Victorian drama! For Christ’s sake, James, you don’t have to pay for my drinks and buy me dinner before I’ll fuck you again! I’m a sure thing!”

The bar goes quiet around them. People previously in conversation are all silent now, every table staring at them.

James is still looking at him, ignoring the spectators, but now he’s the one trying not to laugh.

“That didn’t sound good, did it?” Q says, grimacing, speaking under his breath.

“Like I always say...you're just so _naughty_.” James just shakes his head. “I'll take this outside. I'll probably get yelled at and I’ll probably be an asshole. Not very gentlemanly of me." He slips the phone into his pocket, winks. "Try not to get in trouble while I'm gone.”

Q watches him go, leans forward into the bar again, toys with the stem of the martini glass. Christ. Embarrassing. Again with his mouth. For a relatively quiet guy, he runs it quite a bit. He wonders what huge percentage of his conversation could be classified as “smart ass,” versus increasingly smaller percentages of all the other things he says. He is sipping on his martini, figuring out actual percentage ratios when someone comes up to stand next to him at the bar. He can see a man out of the corner of his eye; tall, about his age or maybe even a little younger, with dark hair. Q immediately pegs him as British, too. He’s posh and reeks of entitlement.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asks.

Q has to be asked twice before he realizes the man is talking to him. “What? Oh, ah, no thanks. I’m good.”

“You are more than _good_ , you are absolutely top shelf. C’mon, I said I want to buy you a drink.”

The man is insistent. Belligerent. Q turns to face him. “And I said no thanks.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. Your friend or john or whatever he is just left. Let me buy you a drink. Unless, that is, you want to skip all that and just come back to my room and fuck.”

Now Q rolls his eyes. Actually finds this a little bit funny. “Look. Despite what you may have just heard, I’m actually not a male escort.”

Funny until the man reaches out and actually touches his bum.

“Hey, sod off,” Q says, affronted, tries to move out of reach.

“I can pay.” The man moves closer, tries it again.

A deep voice breaks in behind them. “Wouldn't do that, if I were you.”

James. Oh, god. This isn’t going to be good. James comes up closer and looks at Q, then at the man, then back to Q, crosses his arms over his chest. James is, for the moment, highly amused. “I leave you alone for two minutes and already you're in trouble. _Two minutes_ and you’ve already got a new boyfriend.”

Q just shrugs helplessly, jerks his thumb at the guy. “I don’t even know who this is.”

The man looks disappointed, looks at James, motions with his head towards Q. “So he’s yours, then.”

James gives Q a good long look, smiles slowly. “Q doesn’t belong to anybody. I’m just lucky he's letting me along for the ride.”

The man hasn’t listened carefully. “Not yours, then. Good.” He leans in towards Q again, tries to touch him again, this time a hand to the lower back. Q moves closer to James.

James’s eyes narrow dangerously. He is no longer amused. “That was not a license to touch.”

“Shove off, granddad,” the man says dismissively, staring appreciatively at Q.

“Oh, god,” Q says. “I wouldn’t do-”

In less than two seconds, James has moved right in front of the man, simultaneously wraps one hand around the back of his head and knees him in the groin. As the man’s head comes down from doubling over in pain, James pushes it down fast and hard against the top of the counter, just enough to stun him. He catches the man as he sags, props him up on a barstool and drapes him over the counter. It all happens in the blink of an eye, so smooth Q’s betting no one in the whole bar saw a thing. And if they did, they were probably going to keep their mouth shut.

Q stares at the body draped over the countertop, eyes wide. Then turns to James, who is staring down at the man with a murderous glint in his eyes. And, _fuck_ , if he isn’t turned on. If there is one thing he likes, it’s watching James in action. James is like one continuous muscle from brain to body, reactions always perfect, timing always impeccable, mind and body always in sync. Q has always been in awe of him for that. He has watched some particular video footage way too many times. Maybe even kept a few copies for personal use.

James looks up at Q. “He was rude. _Rude_. On just so many levels.” He shrugs. “He had that coming.”

Q calmly takes a sip of his martini, thinking. Makes a mental note to erase the bar's video footage later. Then he quickly reaches over and widens the fingers of one still hand to form a circle, then sets his glass into the center of it. Arranges the tableau a little more artistically to make it look like the man is just drunk. The man moans, is starting to lift his head a little.

Q grabs James by the front of his shirt and they spill out of the bar into a narrow alleyway. It’s dark outside now. By this time, they are both laughing hysterically. Completely inappropriately, Q knows, but _fuck_ it feels good to let go and laugh. He is doubled over, hands on his knees. When he finally stands up again, he turns to James, who is also still laughing, back to a wall.

Q turns to him and mimics him, arms crossed across his chest in a dramatic recreation of the scene. “One day. _One day_ I’ve been here and already you’ve racked up a body count.”

“Oh, I’ve been here a lot longer than a day and that wasn’t my first.”

They both sputter into laughter again. Q assumes that's a joke, but one can never be sure, not with James. They continue down the alley, getting farther away from the scene of the crime.

James grabs Q’s hand, stops in a recessed doorway, pulls him in after him. James leans forward, hungrily covers Q’s lips with his own, kisses him so hard he pushes Q’s head back, Q can hardly breathe. When James finally pulls back again, he's smiling just a little, a teasing look on his face.

“So that's what happens when you sass me for taking you out. I hope you're happy."

Q actually does feel sorry for that. "My bad again. I _do_ like you taking me out. Very much."

James looks subtly pleased, but also manages to look almost contrite. Almost.

"Are you angry with me? That was probably wrong. I always go too far. Guess my cover’s blown, so much for good behavior."

Q lunges forward, still so turned on. "Are you kidding? Is it wrong that I have such a huge hard-on for you right now? I’ve never wanted you more.”

Q grabs a fistful of James’s shirt again, pulls him forward, kisses him back, hard, aggressively. James suddenly grabs him around the waist, bodily picks him up. Q finds himself in the air for the second time in so much as a day. His arse lands solidly on the ledge of a windowsill in the recess of the doorway.

“Oh, shit,” is all Q can say, breathlessly, as James looms into him, his hands on either side of his thighs, boxing him in. Q’s hands are on his shoulders for balance. Q should have learned by now what happens when he plays with fire; but by now, he knows he wants the burn. Q’s hands slide around James's neck, fingers lace at the back of his head. 

“You shouldn't say things like that. You’ll just irk me on." James smiles rakishly. “But I love it when you do. I’ll bet I've got an even bigger hard-on for _you_." James runs his hands slowly up Q's thighs, thumbs on the inside seems of his trousers, caressing him through the fabric, stopping just short of the danger zone. When James speaks again, his voice is low, thick with desire. "Fuck, Q. I'd do anything for you. You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger so tight, you have no idea."

Q momentarily stills. “I never meant that. I never meant to play you in any way like that.”

“I know. I absolutely believe you didn’t. And _that_ is why you succeed. And I fucking love it. I love pleasing you, making love to you."

Q just looks at him, drinking him in, before he speaks. "I hate to be the one to break this to you, since it might ruin your image and all, but you're kind of a romantic."

James snorts yet again. "I'm really not. If there's even an ounce of romance in me, you must wring it out." His hands continue to caress him, Q's breathing quickens. " _You_ , though, you're a _total_ romantic, full of all your ideals and self-sacrifice and integrity. You were made to be loved, I can feel how much you want it, especially when you pretend you don't."

Q stares at him, breathing hard, thinks of last night and what they said to each other, about not looking for this, about being fine on their own. Knows they're both so full of shit. "I would say the same of you."

James's eyes are dark, smoldering. He leans forward suddenly, kisses him; slow, long, hard. And then the dam breaks; desires explode, the kissing gets frenzied, hands are roaming everywhere.

"Christ, James," Q manages to pant out. "I want you...fuck, you'll have me in an alley yet if you keep this up...and all before you even buy me dinner..."

"Fuck dinner,” James murmurs suddenly, pulling away. “We’ll order room service. Let’s go back to the hotel room and never leave.” James goes back to kissing his neck, talks teasingly, urgently, as he moves his lips up to his ear. “There’s nothing to see in this town, anyway. You won't miss a thing. It’s ugly. This whole island is ugly. I don’t know why people even come here, it's obviously so hideous...”

Q laughs shakily, the exquisite tension lessening a little, as James pulls him forward, holds on to him as Q slides off the window sill and down the front of James's body, hard-on grinding on hard-on, Q's feet slowly coming down to rest on the ground again.

“We have tonight and all of tomorrow and tomorrow night before I have to go…” Q says, his voice strained with want.

"We'll make the best of it." James takes his hand in one of his own as they turn back for the hotel. “Let's go. Time's wasting.”

_And that’s all Q sees of Mykonos. But fuck if James doesn't show him more, after all; Q sees stars all night long._


	15. November - Belgrade - Evening

The three of them sit in a corner on a couch covered with multicolored pillows in rich reds and golds and creams. It’s dim in the bar, lit only by mosaic glass candle lamps suspended on long chains from the ceiling. On the round table in front of them, the brass base of the hookah glints under the flickering light.

James, in a sharp grey suit as usual, sits next to Q who’s wearing dark gray pinstripe trousers and a black turtleneck; Moneypenny sits across from them on the other side of the table, beautiful in a form-fitting red dress, quietly watching them.

James hands the pipe to Q, who takes a long drag of the fruity aromatic tobacco, the water gurgling as it bubbles with air. He hands it back to James.

“You know all the best places,” Q says, relaxing and sliding down a little, his head falling back on the cushions.

“I've spent a lot of time in this part of the world, in and out for different reasons for twenty years. It’s beautiful terrain with a difficult history, but there’s a lot to love here.”

James stretches out his arm, lays it across the cushions behind Q’s head. His knee falls lazily against Q’s, his fingers play inconspicuously with a curl at the nape of Q’s neck.

Q looks up at James, his gaze filtered through his long, dark eyelashes. “There certainly is.”

James looks back down at him, tilts his head. “I want to try something.” He glances at the hookah, back at Q. “Can you shotgun?”

Q snorts, rolls his eyes. “Can I write a simple 5GL algorithm blindfolded with my arms tied behind my back?”

James smiles. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ whatever that means. And the blindfold and tying up part sounds interesting, by the way.”

He reaches over to Q, gently takes off his glasses, folds them, and lays them on the table, Q somewhat mesmerized by his movements and what he might do next.

Q watches James’s mouth take in the end of the long, thick cylindrical pipe, sucking, breathing in the smoke. Q’s lips part, aroused, and his breathing grows shallower. James withdraws the pipe, leans in towards him, slowly, tilts his head as he goes. Q mirrors him by tilting his head the opposite direction. James stops just an inch away, Q’s mouth opens a little more; James exhales into him at the same moment as Q inhales, the smoke unwinding, stretching, swirling between them like a low white fog flowing over the moors.

James’s hand comes up to cup Q's chin, palm just under his jaw. Fingers splay gently across his cheekbone on one side, thumb on the other; James tilts Q’s head a little more and holds him still as he closes the space between them, lips finally touching, mouths slotting together perfectly, the smoke disappearing inside them.

When he pulls away, their lips now closed, the air is clear until Q tilts his head up, eyes locked with James’s, exhales softly and the smoke returns to the air, curling up in a long, wavy stream.

They just stare at each other for a long moment, James’s hand still holding his face, both perfectly still. James’s hand finally drops away as they become aware again they are in a public place. Q’s heart is beating fast, desire coursing through his veins like a warm saline solution flowing from his heart to every extremity.

Moneypenny just sighs.

“Oh, sod it,” she says, resigned. “I’m not even going to joke about a threesome anymore, James is never going to share you with _anybody_.”

Q flushes. James is still looking at him, not disagreeing, not even trying to hide his hunger.

“Time to go, I think,” James states for them all, still devouring Q with his gaze. He quickly pulls bills out of his pocket and lays them on the table. Q grabs his glasses and puts them on, James behind him holding out his parka to slide his arms into, taking the opportunity to subtly graze his lips against the back of his neck, just above his turtleneck collar and just below the edge of his curls. Q shivers at the contact.

It’s dark and cold on the short walk back to the hotel, house lights covering the hillsides around them, the bridges crossing the Sava and the Danube rivers below brightly lit; the glow of the _Kalemegdan_ fortress rising above the city center lights up the sky in the distance. James walks between them, one arm over the shoulders of both Q and Moneypenny, both leaning into his chest, quiet. Q feels peaceful, content, like he finally belongs somewhere, has finally found a sort of home with these people.

At the steps of the Hotel Moscow, Moneypenny leaves them alone to linger a bit outside with another knowing, long-suffering look on her face, but she is smiling as she goes in. James turns to Q, runs his hand just lightly over the front of his parka, fingertips trailing. “I have a few things to do yet. But I won’t be long.”

Q slips his hand into his pocket, pulls out a keycard to his room and gives it to James. “Whenever you’re done.”

Q doesn’t even know everything that goes on during a mission, just the things he needs to know. James takes it and slides it into an inside pocket of his suit jacket, under the lapel of his form-fitting wool winter coat.

Unable to touch more on the front steps of the hotel with people all around, they continue inside, shoulder pressed to shoulder, Q’s fingertips just lightly hanging on to the fine black material of that long winter dress coat, his touch subtly hidden just under the crook of James’s arm, unwilling to lose contact with him.

“Q, James, there you are.”

The new M’s deep and commanding voice rumbles across the lobby. They both look over in surprise to see M and Tanner at the reception desk, apparently having arrived early. Moneypenny is standing next to them, a look on her face that says _be careful_.

They move apart, Q’s fingers slipping off and falling to his side. Q sees the micro expressions flit across M’s face as his eyes shift almost imperceptibly from one to the other of them; surprise, suspicion, comprehension; all in that order. His features smooth out then, once again unreadable. Tanner hasn’t even bothered to look at them, reading messages on his phone.

“007, I’d have a word with you,” M says, addressing James more quietly, just so their group can hear. “Something's come up.” He looks over at Q. “I’ll see you in the morning. Meeting at 10:00.”

Q nods, the dismissal clear. With just a quick glance at James, he leaves them in the lobby and goes upstairs to his room, ponders the implications of what it means if M knows what’s going on. Then, thinking again of James and the feel of his leg against his, those lips exhaling into his mouth, that cock deep inside him hopefully very soon, he finds it very hard to care.

***

Q steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist, steam thick in the air. James has not come back yet after their chance meeting with M. An hour had passed, so he decided to get ready for bed. James will come when he’s able, maybe slipping under the covers next to him in the dark, waking him up with a kiss, a hand sliding over him. 

The door to the hotel room slams. But James does not call his name, does not come into the bathroom to look for him. It’s silent. Q instantly knows something is wrong. He steps out into the main room, sees James with his back against the door, holding shaking hands out in front of him, covered with blood. There is a shallow gash on his cheek, beaded in red. His tie is loose, askew; there is a red streak of blood on the collar of his white dress shirt, a tear in the shoulder seam of his jacket. His fine winter coat is nowhere to be seen.

James is looking down at his hands, then he slowly looks up at Q. His legs give out from underneath him and he slides slowly, jerkily, to the floor, his back still to the door.

“I just killed a man with my bare hands,” James says, voice unsteady, and then it breaks. “My God. Oh, my God. Oh, God. What I just did…” His voice grows harsh. “I had to do it. I wanted to _live._ I wanted to live more than anything, more than I ever have before. I would have done anything, _anything_ , to come back to you. What I’m capable of…what I did...fuck, I even scare myself sometimes.”

Q walks slowly across the room, kneels down by him. “It’s going to be all right.” His own heart is hammering wildly, but he has to keep it together, has to bring James back from this abyss.

James is wild eyed, his words pour out. “You were right to break if off with me, you were right. I’m not good enough for you. I’ll break you, Q, don’t you see? I’ll just ruin you. It will all go to shit and it will all be my fault. You’re just going to get hurt again, don’t you see? Or maybe even killed. You should leave me while you still can. It always comes down to this. You should leave.” James looks down at the floor. “I’m a selfish man. I wanted you. I want you now, all for myself. But I’m bad for you. I’m bad for you.”

“Shhh.” Q lays a hand on his arm, all brute strength under the refined grey fabric. His hand slowly rotates under and grips his bicep, applies upwards pressure to urge James to get up. He doesn’t know what’s happened; there will be time enough later to find out. He doesn’t want James to say any more of these things, doesn’t want him to believe any of it. Q refuses to believe any of it. He’s not going anywhere. He has to bring James back to him.

He knows how to do it. He knows what James needs. “Come on.”

James just looks up at him, breathing hard, but doesn’t move, his eyes fixated.

“Get up,” Q says, firmly. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Still James doesn’t move.

“Get up,” Q orders like a drill sergeant, trying to cut through the veil of shock. The tone finally reaches him. James stands up, compliant now under Q’s quiet command. Q leads him to bathroom, still wet and hot from his shower, the air hazy. He turns on the faucet, holds James’s hands under a stream of warm water, rubbing them between his own hands, watching trails of red mix with the water against the bright white basin, then disappear down the drain. He takes a flannel and wets it with warm water, dabs at the cut on James’s cheek.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks. James is half leaning one hip against the marble countertop, half leaning into him. “Are you ok?”

“I’m all right,” James says. “A few bruises.”

James reaches up and catches Q’s hand as he dabbs against his cheek, pulls the hand away. He slips an arm around Q, hauls him close. One of James’s hands grips him just under the jaw, just like in the hookah bar but this time not so gently. Strong fingers curl around his chin, holding him still to cover his lips with his own, hungrily, desperately. Q melts under his touch, relaxes against him, drops the flannel into the basin.

Breaking apart to breathe, Q finally pulls his mouth away, at least as much as James will let him. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers. A few seconds pass, and then James nods, slowly. Q takes James’s hand and leads him back into the room, slowly pushes him down into a dark brown leather club chair next to the bed. “I’m going to give you what you need.”

James sprawls, head resting against the back of it, knees spread wide apart, hands on the arms of the chair. Short hair tousled, a bright angry red line on his cheek, one button undone of his dress shirt with his tie hanging just below it. “I just need you, Q.”

“You have me, James.”

Q backs away, just enough to reach into the nightstand drawer for the bottle of lube already stashed there. Then Q comes back to James to stand in front of him, slowly undoes the knot of the towel and lets it fall to the side. He’s never been secure about his body; his primary connection to self is to his mind, not his body. But James is changing all that.

James reaches out to him, sitting up, wraps large hands around his hips and pulls him forward, eyes roaming over him appreciatively. “Beautiful. You’ve always been so beautiful to me.”

Q’s hands slip around the back of James’s head. James leans forward, takes his half hard cock in his mouth, all the way to his root, tonguing it, moving up and down over it. Q’s hips thrust forward; one of James’s hands reaches around to cup his arse, caresses it. James’s other hand grips at the base of Q’s cock, his mouth works him until he brings him to full hardness.

Wanting more, but in other ways, Q steps back and his length finally slides out of James’s mouth with a wet pop of a sound, James looking up at him hungrily like he had earlier in the night at the bar.

Q moves forward again, puts his hands on James’s shoulders and slowly pushes him back against the chair. He crawls onto the chair, one leg to either side of a muscled thigh, straddling him, facing him. Something comes over him. He feels powerful, seeing the desire and need in James’s eyes. But he can also see the fear, the vulnerability. He wants to make him forget what had just happened, if even just for a while.

“You need to tell me something right now,” Q says. “You need to tell me how much you value this suit. I hope not much, because I plan to fuck myself on you and come all over it.”

James’s eyes darken, his breathing is quick and deep. “I hate this suit.”

“All right, then.” Q reaches down and runs his hand over the front of James’s trousers.

Q leans down and kisses him as he undoes the button, then the zipper. Slides his hand in, closes around the cock that is already hard in his hand. He pulls him out, and James’s cock stands upright, hugely engorged. Q pours out some lube, Then runs his hand up and down the hard shaft, tip to base and up again. James shifts under him, moans. Q can feel his own sensitive, erect cock brushing against James’s trousers, his pale flesh outlined against dark fabric.

He slicks up his hands again, reaches behind himself, slides one finger into himself, rising up a bit above James as he does, his eyes shuttering. He breathes out a deep sigh at the intrusion, getting used to the feeling. Adds another. He takes his time preparing himself; openly, wantonly pleasuring himself. He’s moaning, whimpering, over and over right there in front of James, he knows it, can’t stop himself, it feels so good. With his other hand, he continues to stroke James, keeping him hard.

James reaches out to touch him, but Q commands him again, “No. Not yet.” James slowly lets his hand drop away to the side of the chair again, waiting for direction. “Look at me, James. Just me. Forget everything else,” Q murmurs between pants.

James is watching his body moving up and down faster and faster as he grinds against his own fingers. His cock is leaking clear fluid, he’s hitting himself at just the right spot. It’s going to be so good when he finally jacks himself off. Or has James do it for him.

Q takes his fingers out of himself, gasps at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Holds on to James’s cock at the base, holds it still, positions himself over it. And then he slowly lowers himself onto him, cries out as he feels the tip of James’s cock, pushes down harder, slowly. Q groans out long and loud as he feels James’s cock start to slide in, god how he loves this part, loves how it feels to be so filled. He lowers himself even more, lets himself get used to the size, slowly takes him in, inch by slow inch, until James bottoms out against him.

“Oh, God,” James says, barely breathing. Sweat is breaking out on his forehead. “Oh, God. I'm in so deep. You’re so tight, so hot.”

Q lets himself enjoy the feeling of being fully seated on James, balls right up against him, the cool fabric of James’s trousers against his naked thighs. Rises up a little, then sinks slowly down again all the way, rocking his hips a little, loving the tight fullness.

He knows what he wants right now, what he wants James to see; he wants to come, riding him. He wants James to see him come. He rises up again, almost all the way off but James moans in protest, grabs him around the hips, not letting him rise up any higher and pushes him back down almost roughly, Q taking him in, all the way down again.

It feels so good, James inside him. So right. Q pivots his hips again, grinding a little, a soft sigh puffing from his lips.

“Jesus...” James’s hips began to move.

“No,” Q says almost sharply, he doesn’t mean to but he can’t think, can’t articulate, James is shafted just where he wants him and that's all he can concentrate on. “Don’t move.”

James stays still. Q can feel him trembling with the effort to hold off. He puts his hands on the top of the chair to either side of James’s head for more support. He moves again, up and down, not all the way but just where he wants James’s cock to hit him, over and over. He concentrates, his eyes shut tight, focusing all his energy on grinding against just the right spot inside him, James’s hard cock dragging over it with each shallow push against him.

He’s beginning to feel waves of pleasure building deep within him, rolling from the inside out. His cock is waving in the air with his movements, jerking up and down like an invisible hand is controlling it as he rides James. But James is still not touching him, he is not allowed, just watches him with a mesmerized amazement. Drops of fluid are splashing on James’s trousers, darkening the fabric like raindrops.

“Q,” James almost keens, he’s shaking hard. “Fuck, Q. I’ve never seen anything…never felt…Christ…I want to come...”

Q can feel he is close, too. So close. His muscles are tiring from the strain of holding himself up, his eyes are watering from exertion and drops of sweat and are running down his face, his legs are shaking from pleasure and effort.

“James,” Q moans. “Touch me. Oh fuck, please. Make me come…then come inside me...”

James needs no further encouragement. He suddenly surges forward in the chair, still fully seated in him, pulls Q close with one hand around his neck, kisses him greedily. His silk tie hangs forward and brushes over Q’s bare chest, whispers lightly over his sensitive nipples. James’s hips are moving now, thrusting up into him; he’s fucking him hard, urgently, over and over, grunting with effort and almost mindless pleasure, which is everything Q wants for him. James’s hand finds Q’s eager cock, gives him one long, firm stroke.

At almost the first feel of James’s hand on him, overloaded by the feel of the hard heat pistoning inside him,  the cool and light whisper of silk against his hot skin, the scratch of trousers against his soft inner thighs, Q explodes. He throws his head back and shouts out James’s name, wave after wave flowing over him, his come arcing out over the top of James’s hand and all over the front of his suit, striping all the way up to the shirt collar, leaving a milky trail of white crisscrossed over the red smear of blood already there.

And then James is coming too, shouting, swearing, his body jerking. Q stops moving but he’s trembling, his arms still bracing on the chair to either side of James’s head. He can feel James’s cock pulsing into him, spurt after rhythmic spurt, James’s hips thrusting just slightly with each successive pump. His come feels hot and wet inside him. When James finally pulls out, it drips down his bare thighs, raindrops turning into dark pools growing larger on James's trousers, the suit now fully beyond redemption.

They both finally stop shuddering, Q collapses forward against James’s chest, his arms wrap around him. James’s heart is beating erratically but strong under his ear; Q’s own hot blood is pounding through his veins. The feel of flesh against flesh, blood and tears and sweat and semen mixing all together. He’s more aware of these visceral things than he has ever been before, all these things that mean _life_.

In that moment he fully understands how close they really are, all the time, to losing everything, as long as they stay in this job. How much he has taken for granted, thoughtlessly. How he needs to hang on to what he loves and never let go because sometimes, tomorrow never comes.

He is sure, absolutely sure, this is where he belongs, who he belongs with. Q knows he can’t always control everything; but this, this total commitment of his heart and soul to another person, this he can choose. He feels himself give it away, feels it seep from his pores into James.

“I choose you,” Q whispers suddenly against his chest “I choose _you_. I love you, James. I love you.”

Q leans back just enough to look at him. And to Q’s astonishment, James’s face is wet with sweat but also laced with tears; the release of pain and fear, desire and love, finally spilling out. His voice is rough when he  speaks. “You win, you know. You wreck me more. Every single time. I always knew you were the one. I knew you were the one who could.”

“It’s not about win-”

James’s arms wrap tighter around him, his forehead rests on Q’s shoulder, his lips against his neck. “Be quiet for once, would you? Just stop arguing and let me love you. I chose you long ago, Q. I love you. I adore you. I need you. Please don’t ever leave me.”

Q closes his eyes, sinks into him. Shuts his mouth for once, and just lets James love him.

_This is life, Q thinks, the thought ferocious in his mind, his love ferocious in his heart. I choose life with James. As hard and uncertain as it is, this is life worth living._


	16. November - Belgrade - Night and Next Day

Q wakes up several hours later, slides out from underneath a heavy arm. He grabs his laptop, acting on a hunch, something not quite adding up in his thoughts. He curls up in the chair next to the bed with his laptop in his lap, pops in his earbuds. The dim greenish light casts a glow over his face in the dark, reflecting off his glasses, but it’s not enough to wake up James, he hopes.

It is short work to jack back into the hotel security video system, he’d already infiltrated it before they even arrived. He scans the recorded images from several hours ago. His finger stills over the mousepad when he reaches their hallway. A man he does not recognize is just about to insert a key card into the door of his hotel room at the exact moment the elevator doors open to reveal James just getting out. Both stop in their tracks, eyes meeting. Suddenly the man begins to run and he makes it through the stairway exit, James in hot pursuit.

Q frantically scans the images again, picks them up in the stairway and is able to follow the chase to the ground floor, where they exit through a side door into an alley. Q loses the images from there, as the surveillance cameras do not extend that far.

His own hands begin to shake at what he now realizes has happened. Someone tried to get into his room, and only by the random chance of perfect timing with James's arrival had it not actually happened. Q imagines himself in the shower, nude and unarmed. He knows he would have been unable to hear the soft sound of a door opening, unable to see clearly through the steam of the bathroom. He might have thought perhaps the shadow coming towards him is James, maybe even reaching out to welcome his own demise.

He isn’t a particularly good fighter. He knows basic moves that any army recruit is taught, but that doesn't make him good, or strong; Q’s real strength is from behind a keyboard, and he's even a remarkable shot with a gun. But those two skills would not have helped him. Sometimes it takes two hands, hard muscle, a will like iron.

Q can only surmise that James had chased down the intruder, killed him, perhaps wrapped him in his beautiful winter coat, disposed of him most likely in the bins, the evidence cleaned up by MI6 in short order. And he hadn’t said a word to him about the attempted break in. This time, it’s he who owes James; it’s James who put his life on the line for _him_.

He erases all the video footage, which is suspicious but not entirely damning; it does not show the actual fight and subsequent killing, but one can never be too careful. He leaves clean images behind with adjusted timestamps; like it never even happened.

Q slowly shuts the laptop. He thinks for a long, long time. This isn’t good, his being in the line of fire. He’s done stupid things for James, and now James has done stupid things for him; risky things that can get them killed, things that can jeopardize a mission.

He can’t continue to do the fieldwork, that much seems obvious. He’d told himself it was for the experience, and he’s grateful he’s done it and knows how it all works on the ground; he’s got a much greater appreciation for the pulling of the trigger, or not, as James would say. But it’s all a lie he’s told himself, mostly, he knows that now. It may have started that way, but ever since that time in Zagreb, he’s just wanted to be near James. Doesn’t trust that anybody else can watch out for him like he can.

Which is debatable, in the end. James is clearly formidable, lethal, in control; God knows what else he’s done and kept from him, out of some sense of misguided but _fucking hot_ protective instinct towards him that’s turning him on even as he thinks about it.

From now on, he will stay at HQ and others will go in the field. He can do that, after all; he has a whole staff under him to whom he can delegate. He will devote himself to developing the best research and development unit that he can, and leave the day to day mechanics to others. Fuck Tanner. Fuck M. Fuck them all. It was time to go back and be the boss and he was going to boss the shit out of that place.

Q slips into bed. James has rolled onto his back, one muscled arm thrown over his head. Q wedges under his other arm, lays his head on his chest, wraps an arm around James’s waist again, listens to the steady beating of his heart.

“Find what you were looking for?” James asks. His voice is low and echoes through Q’s ear resting on his chest. His tone suggests he knows exactly what Q has been doing.

“I saw what happened,” Q says.

James doesn’t say anything, but Q can hear and feel his heartbeat increase.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Q asks.

James is silent again. “When I saw that man at the door…” He stops speaking abruptly. “I can't. I can't think even think about it. I'll just fucking lose my shit again.”

Q stokes a hand soothingly over James’s chest. He traces his scars in fascination, frowns as he gingerly skirts the bruises left from last night’s fight. James feels him paying too much attention to the bruises, grabs Q’s hand to still it. Q stops, leaves his hand flat over James’s heart.

“I’m not going into the field anymore,” Q states quietly.

Q feels James’s chest rise and fall, a sigh of relief. “Good.”

“Not unless you make me, anyway. So don’t do anything stupid or reckless and make me come after you.”

James laughs a bit at that. “Well, we both know _that’s_ not going to happen. 'Stupid and reckless' is my MO.”

Q snorts quietly, ignores that. “I’m going to make you the best damned weaponry MI6 has ever seen. And cars, too. You should see the DB10 I’m working on for you, you’re going to shit yourself.”

“There are other 00s to think about, you know,” James teases.

“That may be.” Q kisses James’s chest. “But you’re the best of them.”

James sighs, lays a hand on Q's head, strokes through his hair. “That’s why I fell for you, Q. You met me at my worst, but you always thought I was the best. That kind of reckless attitude can turn a man’s head.”

Q just smiles, sets his chin on James’s chest, looks up at him. “I’m going to give you whatever you need, whatever you want. And then some more. At work. And outside of work."

James seems to like the sound of that. He suddenly rolls on top of Q. His muscled legs weigh down Q’s hips; his cock, hard again, is resting between Q’s thighs. His hands slide up Q’s arms, pull his hands up and pin his wrists down against the pillow to either side of his head.

And then James’s mouth comes down and blots out everything else in the world.

***

The night passes far too quickly. They both get far too little sleep. The 10:00 meeting comes all too soon. The meeting is unremarkable, until the very end when they all get up to leave.

“Q, 007, please stay a moment," M says, then looks at Tanner and Moneypenny. “The two of you can go.”

Q and James glance at each other, slowly sit down again, each on a different side of the table, M at the head. They are both tired, sore from record breaking activity to rival even Mykonos and James even more so from his added beating. They are both in sour moods to be at this meeting and forced to think about national security when they really just want to be pawing at each other.

He waits a moment until the others have exited the room, then looks from one to the other. Clears his throat. “Something has come up that compels me to speak, in my role as Head of MI6. That means Head of you both. Yes, even you, Q.”

Q and James glance at each other again, but neither says anything.

“Our intelligence indicates that whatever happened last night might not have been directed at the usual suspect, that being you, 007. We do believe that, for whatever reason, the intended target was probably Q.”

Q sits up straighter. It was surprising, yet not entirely unexpected news, based on the footage he had seen.

James folds his hands in front of him on the table, leans forward. “You have my attention.”

“We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But we can make a few assumptions.” M looks back and forth from one to the other again. “I’m aware there is something going on between the two of you." M smooths down the front of his suit, searching for words. Then stares pointedly at James. “I saw what you did to that man last night, or what was left of him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you act more savage, and I think I know why.”

He looks to Q. “You know what he is. He’s an assassin. So I hope you haven’t romanticized him into something he’s not. He’s a man without mercy or remorse, and I’m almost sorry to say that’s exactly what we need him to be, for the greater good. Have you any idea what an investment a 007 is? The years and years of training? The enormous resources and expenses that go into making the 00 program work?”

Q glances over at James. Thinks about all the expensive equipment he’s destroyed. All the mounds of paperwork and time he’s cost him personally. And he's probably caused him more than a few premature grey hairs. But he can’t stop himself, a slight smile crosses his lips.

“Some idea, yes.” But he’s also a bit irritated by M’s clinical assessment. “But I also know that, from my albeit short-term observations as a relatively new employee here, all 00 agents operate strictly under the legal authority of the British government with the utmost care and integrity, therefore causing the utmost minimum of collateral damage to the general public. Every one of them is brave, loyal and patriotic to a fault, sometimes at great personal sacrifice, including 007. I don’t think it’s romanticizing anything to say so.” Q clears his throat. "Sir."

Q catches James’s eye, who is sitting up a bit straighter and looks pleased and surprised by Q’s statement. He smiles at Q, a look of love and pride and desire flashing across his face.

M narrows his eyes as he regards Q. “Well said, Q. I don’t disagree. However.” Now M turns his attention to James. “ _You_. Do you have any idea who Q is, what he really is? Do you really have any idea what he's capable of?”

Now James catches Q’s eye and he smiles slyly at him, raises an eyebrow provocatively. Q blushes, thinks about all the things they did last night; he can still feel James deep inside his mouth, can still feel James knuckles deep inside of him. James knows what he is capable of, all right.

M continues on, his voice rising aggressively at seeing their glibly wordless exchange. “Q is every government’s worst nightmare. I just wake up every morning and thank god he’s on our side. He’s a bonafide genius, 007, smarter than even you. Probably the best R & D developer we are likely to ever find in England, maybe in the world. Don’t think other people don’t know it, too, wouldn’t like to get their hands on him. Maybe somebody tried to do just that last night. And in the wrong hands, with the proper leverage to make him do just about anything, we are all fucked. That leverage could potentially be _you_.”

He looks back to Q again. “And I have no doubt that, given the proper leverage which could potentially be _you_ , 007 would leave a swathe of devastation so far and so wide, so brutal and unforgiving and destructive and quite possibly internationally destabilizing, that no amount of resources at our disposal could possibly mop up after him. And again, I repeat, we are all fucked.”

He clears his throat again. “I’m the new man on the ground here, and I hate to be the killjoy. Far be it from me to rob anyone of even one ounce of happiness in this godforsaken world. But do you see what I’m saying? I’m not sure what happened last night. And quite frankly, I’m a bit pissed off about all this. Your relationship is creating a rather large and unforeseen security risk and I’d like it to stop. And I urge you both to consider that, strongly, in the best interests of MI6.” He draws in a deep breath. “Look. I'm not your shrink or your priest or your father. I'm your fucking boss, so I’ll just end with this. I’m more than thankful things turned out as they did. But I’m honestly not sure whether to thank you or fire you, 007.”

James is completely calm, his hands still folded in front of him. He just narrows his eyes in response. “You won’t fire me.”

“And why, exactly, is that?”

James just smiles serenely. “You said it yourself. A good assassin is hard to replace. I may be brutal and remorseless, but at least I've got a bit of class. Good luck finding another one who owns their own tuxedo and knows a fish fork from a salad fork.”

Q has to hide his snickering behind a hand over his mouth.

M fumes. “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. None of us can afford it. You should know, there are rumors. Rumors of a merger between MI5 and MI6. There are rumors questioning the utility and the very existence of the 00 program. I really don’t need you mucking things up further.”

This is news to Q. He has no idea how to take it, what it might mean for their jobs. He watches the two men glare at each other. Finally, M waves his hand at both of them. “That’s all. I’ll see you at the airport.” He strides out of the room, leaving them behind.

James looks over at Q. “Well. That dire warning came unexpectedly fast.”

Q furrows his brow. Not exactly unexpected, from his perspective. Not after what he'd seen on M’s face the night before. “Should we be worried?”

“About what? About someone trying to kill one or the other of us? Yes. About M wanting us to stop screwing or rumors of a merger? Who the fuck cares.” He stands up, comes over to him, puts his hands on Q’s shoulders. “M can blow me.”

Q’s lips quirk. “That’s my job.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” He smiles again. “Look. We can keep this quiet, I’ll give him that. But that’s all. There’s nothing he can say or do that will ever make me change my mind about us. I’d actually quit first. I could always do security work instead, there's always some rich jerk who needs a bodyguard.” James cocks his head, looks at him, smiles deviously. “Or, there’s always _you_ , my little minx, who might need the bodyguard. You alone could be a full time job, with all the trouble you get in.”

Q feels the sass rising, wants to lessen the tension. He doesn't want to think about potential threats on their lives anymore. He looks at James with a sultry smile. “I don’t think I can afford you.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might actually be...well off?”

“Well, I know you’re well endowed…”

“Behave,” James warns with mock sternness.

“Fine,” Q says with a fake scowl. “You mean rich?” Q thinks about James's flat, which he has seen a few times. Sparsely furnished, books and picture frames on the floor, hardly even a glass to drink out of in the cupboards. “Ah...no.”

“I’ll say one thing, being an assassin is lucrative work, even as a government employee. And it’s not like I ever have time to spend any of it. I really don’t need to work at all, ever again. But for you, I’d do it _pro bono_.”

“Or do you mean... _pro boner_?” Q asks, innocently.

“Very funny.” James swats him lightly on the arse. “Damn it, you always look so straight laced and then you say shit like that. Now you’re actually just _trying_ to give me a boner.”

Q just shrugs. “Just trying to lighten things up around here. Got a little tense in here with M.”

James sighs. “Look. Sorry for that. M’s a 00, too. Put two of us in a room and it’s just a fucking cage match. We always want to fight to the death.”

Q’s eyes grow wide as he whispers, “ _There can be only one_ …”

James snorts. “I’m not the bloody Highlander, Q.”

“Are you sure? You _are_ pretty hard to kill…”

James just rolls his eyes again. But then his face grows serious. “I _am_ hard to kill. And I’ll kill anyone who comes at you. You know I’ve got your back, Q. No matter what. Always.”

“I can look out for myself-” Q starts to say; it’s a knee-jerk reaction, he’s always looked out for himself.

“-No,” James cuts in. “You can’t. I know you could do it better than most. But nobody can do this alone. You need MI6, if there really is a threat against you. You need _me_.”

Q ponders this. He’s right. About that, at least. And James needs him.  “And you need _me_. I’ve got your back, too. To the bitter end, remember?”

“The bitter end.” James smiles, squeezes his shoulders with his large and heavy hands. “Don’t worry, Q. They'll never get rid of you, you're too valuable. And they won’t fire me. I’m a huge pain in the neck, but they can’t afford to lose me. And that gives me license to be an asshole.”

Then he kisses Q, long and deep, and neither talks any more about it.

***

Q sits in his first class aisle seat, strapped in securely (he's checked three times), ramrod straight. He is sitting next to James, who is next to the window and casually leafing through a newspaper, squinting because he’s not using his glasses. James seems completely unaware of, and maddeningly entirely unconcerned by, the impending aerodynamically miraculous, gravity-defying launch of this goddamn tin can into the air. Oddly, they’ve never flown together before; their schedules never synched. Q nervously glances past James out the window at the tarmac.

Q adjusts his tie. Christ, it feels tight. It’s so hot. He’s sweating. The plane starts to back out of the gate. He screws his eyes shut, his fingers curl around the arms of the seat in a death grip. Now he feels cold and clammy. This is the part he hates most, the take off.

James looks over at him, notices his fingers gripping the armrest between them, his knuckles turning white. He puts aside his newspaper.

“It’s alright, luv,” he says, prying Q’s fingers off the armrests with some difficulty. It takes two hands. Q feels even fainter from hearing James's unexpected endearment again, wonders when that became a thing. Rather likes it. “You, of all people, Dr. Bonafide Genius, should know that flying is statistically, by far, the safest mode of transport.”

“You, of all people, Mr. License to Asshole,” Q mimics back, nervous, “should know by now that I’m entirely capable of being irrational on any number of topics, despite the evidence to the contrary.”

James just smiles dotingly, raises Q’s hand up to his lips and kisses each fingertip, rotates it over and kisses him on the wrist. Q is surprised, immediately aroused, then slightly alarmed as he flicks his eyes with a meaningful gesture towards M’s head floating above a seat with a slightly visibly thinning patch of brown hair at the crown, two rows in front of them.

James nuzzles at his wrist, completely ignores Q’s warning. He speaks quietly, just for Q to hear. “‘Mr. License to Asshole?' I certainly do have a license for that, specifically to _yours_. I intend to become a goddamn certified technical expert on that subject.” He kisses Q’s wrist again. “He can’t hear us back here, unless you start making a racket. You’re kind of a screamer, you know that?”

Q bristles. “ _I’m_ the screamer? _You’re_ the loud one.”

“Oh, yes, you are. You are _such_ a screamer. Let me tell you all the things you’ve said.” James leans over, starts to whisper in his ear. Describes all the things that he has done to Q, all the things that Q has said in the heat of the moment. Interspersing his stories with the unbuttoning of the cuff of Q’s shirt, pushing it up, leaving a trail of kisses as far up as he can go until the material will slide up no more.

Q squirms in his seat, the feeling of the lips on his arm driving him crazy; warm, wet, tickling, causing shivers to race through him. Now James is on to describing all the things he will do to him when they land in London, describes them in utterly filthy detail and Q is practically breathless, his eyes shut, lost in his mind as he sees everything James is depicting. Lost in the feeling of James kissing him. And all just two seats behind their boss. Who has just reamed them out that very morning for this very thing.

James gently lays his arm back down on the armrest, smoothes down his shirt sleeve, buttons the cuff again. “And that,” he concludes, “is exactly what’s going to happen.”

“You bastard,” Q says, fondly, weakly, smiling now. “Look what you do to me. Please, no more, I beg you. Please don't make me come in my pants on an airplane.”

“Look outside.”

Q looks outside. And sees clear blue sky, a layer of clouds below them. He suddenly realizes the flight is already way past take off, way past the turbulence, set on an even, quiet trajectory towards home. James has purposely distracted him with all that sexy bickering for the past few minutes, making him forget his fears.

“All smooth sailing from here,” James says, quietly.

Q melts. The words gush out, he knows he sounds pathetically lovesick. Because he is. “I fucking love you so much right now, you fucking smug asshole.”

“That _mouth_.” James widens his eyes in feigned surprise, takes an opportunity to mock him back. “What if M hears you say something incriminating like that? We might get in trouble. We might get sent to the Headmaster’s office for a spanking. Or get expelled.”

Q flicks his eyes to the lavatory behind them. “Keep that up and I'll take you in there, suck you off and not even leave a trace. You know I can.”

James regards him with sultry eyes for a long moment. “Don't think I wouldn't let you.” Then he sighs, dramatically rolls his eyes towards M. “But I suppose even _I_ have limits. Shocking, I know.”

James leans over and kisses Q lightly on the lips, lingering a moment, then pulls away. Looks at him steadily for another long moment. “Spend Christmas with me,” he says, impulsively. “I’d like that. Would you?”

Q blinks. He’s incredibly pleased by the invitation. “Yes. Of course. I would love it.”

He’s suddenly reminded of them talking about the holidays almost one year ago, in a museum in Paris. Having no idea at the time it would turn out like this. Thinks about a specially weaponized and monogramed gold pen he took far too long and too much care to craft. A Christmas gift to James that he could not call a gift at the time. And maybe, even then, James knew what he had really meant in the giving of it to him. Maybe that pen had set this all in motion.

James smiles, nods, pleased it’s all settled. He reaches into his inside suit jacket pocket, takes out his glasses and slides them on. Then picks up his newspaper again and goes back to reading it, seemingly as cool and distant and unflappable as he ever was. But Q knows that isn't quite true. James has so many more sides to him than that, and Q feels privileged that James has trusted him enough to show it.

And looking at him like that, so incredibly handsome with one leg crossed over the other, his impeccably cut suit straining across his broad shoulders, the thin red line on his cheek already healing, glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, Q notices the paper he is reading is in French. His heart flips.

He falls in love with him all over again.

He sneaks a hand over and lets it rest on James’s knee. He sees James smile behind his paper. But they don't talk any more. Q looks out the window at the clouds below, savors the feeling of this very moment.

_Smooth sailing from here. Somehow, Q doubts that very much. But with James at his side, all the turbulence that life can throw at him seems suddenly just a minor inconvenience._


	17. December - London

It’s dark. Q slowly wakes, hears the sound of his front door closing. He’s been waiting for him, must have fallen asleep sometime along the way. Q looks at the clock on his nightstand; 11:55. The light of the dial casts a dim greenish bubble of light around the clock, but the room remains dark.

They’d exchanged keys; this is the first time James has used it. Q smiles to himself, listens to the sound of shoes on wood flooring, the thump of a heavy bag being set down. Imagines James in his living room taking off his gloves, then his coat, laying them over the back of a chair somewhere.

Q remembers other times he’s lain in the dark in his bed, listening for clues from the world just outside his door. The sound of dishes being washed and dried in the kitchen, the radio on softly and his mother humming; the heavy, ominously slow lurch of his father’s drunken footsteps coming up the landing; the cheerful, eager tap-tap-tap of a lover’s toothbrush against the sink; the hollow, solitary sound of the shower that same lover runs after sex that’s become empty and routine. Comfort, dread, desire, loss; all the things heard and felt but not seen.

The quiet footsteps grow closer, soft and sure and steady. Q smells him before he even enters the room; smoke and cloves, exhaust from London air, cologne that’s crisp and citrusy. He hears the sound of empty shoes being set to the side, a jacket sliding off, the clink of a belt, a zipper, the soft swish of fabric pooling on the floor. James doesn’t turn on the light; Q swears he can see in the dark, like a cat. James always knows just where he’s at, knows the geometry of his coordinates precisely like he has a map marked _Q_ in his head. 

He feels the duvet move, the bed dips; a bare chest at his back, a warm hand on his own bare hip, lips on his neck. Q rolls towards him, chest to chest. A rough cheek brushes against his face as James leans in and kisses him, accurately homing in on his lips in the dark.

He rubs his cheek leisurely against Q’s face again before he pulls back to look at the clock. “See, luv? It’s 11:59. Told you I’d make it back before Christmas Eve Day. One minute to spare.”

“Cutting it close, as usual. But I knew you’d make it.” Q reaches out, sighs, twines his fingers through his short hair. “Your hair is wet.”

“It’s snowing. We’ll have a White Christmas for sure. But damn, it’s cold out there. Couldn’t wait to get here, climb in next to you.”

James kisses him again, long and slow; James’s skin is cold but his lips are warm, his tongue is hot. They fall together easily, silently; James entwines his limbs with his, seeking warmth. They take it slow and easy; nowhere else to go, no place else to be, no deadlines to meet tonight; the days stretch out before them, the holiday just begun. Gone is the edge of uncertainty, the desperation of doubt. Now they know they love each other, and they just want to show it.

In the dark it’s just skin on skin, lips on flesh; Q can’t see, can only feel a hand stroking over a hip, an arm, and then somewhere else entirely. Q is blind to the direction and path of James’s touch, jolting at each unexpected caress. Mouth on his chest, a tongue over his nipple, laving and sucking it to hardness; a hand gliding over the curve of of his arse, the insides of his thighs. Q arches and writhes beneath him, his breathing is fast and heavy; Q knows James has to be deliberately ignoring his hard and aching cock, touching him everywhere but, building him up.

Hands turning him over, a knee nudging his thighs apart; hands pulling his hips up, he’s up on his knees, but his cheek is still against the cool sheets. A fingertip slides down his spine, slowly, from neck to arse; he shivers under the touch before it lifts off. For a few long moments James does not touch him, he is taut with anticipation. He hears a hand slicking up a hard cock, the wet slapping sound indescribably sensual; he knows what’s coming, but not when or how, and it’s driving him wild.

He feels James slide his hands down his arms, take hold of both his wrists; his hands feel cool and sticky on his skin. James pulls his wrists behind him and holds them locked together at the small of Q’s back with one large hand. Now weight across his back, lips on his neck; Q begins to whimper just a little, his cock is hard and hanging down below him, still ignored, still aching. An arm slides under his chest as a hand winds around the column of Q’s neck, fingers splayed wide, a thumb caressing the sensitive spot just below his ear. James is upright on his knees behind him, Q’s arse against strong, muscular thighs, a hard prick sliding slowly up and down the valley of his buttocks.

Q jolts when he feels the first touch of pressure at his entrance; James is going to open him up with his cock and Q begins to tremble; the slick tip presses in, Q presses back against him. James works into him with metered pushes, little by little, pulling back and pushing in until he slides in all the way and rests there for a moment; they both love that first moment of being fully joined. Then James’s hips begin to move into him rhythmically; the room is silent but for the bed creaking with a steady cadence beneath them and their moans and pants, grunts and sighs. The pressure inside him is intense; he can only imagine what James’s looks like behind him, driving into him; what he must look like, on his knees in front of him.

Q’s face is pushed gently into the mattress with each of James’s thrusts; he feels so full, James can go so deep when he holds him up like this; each thrust is dragging across his prostate, his cock is leaking, the sheets are soaked already, he knows it, and it's only going to get messier and the thought pleases him in a deep and visceral way.

His mind floats away, he loses track of where he is as James fucks into him expertly, relentlessly, exquisitely. His memories roll back in time to the feel of hands pushing apart his thighs, a kiss that astonished them both in a bar in Chicago; the dreamy, sweaty, humid slickness of a hard cock in his hand in a hamam, James’s mouth locked on his, silencing his shouts of pleasure; James jerking and swearing and coming down this throat in his office, then holding him close and telling him he had lips like cherries; the bright sunlight of of Mykonos, legs spread wide around James on the back of a motorcycle, the ecstasy of the first time James was ever inside him…

He shouts out as he finally feels a hand on his weeping, neglected cock, gripping him hard, stroking him. The weight on his back again, lips on his neck, sucking, kissing, licking. He knows his wrists are free now but the weight of James’s body holds them in place; the dark is all around them, he can only feel and hear; he feels blindfolded, like his wrists are cuffed but he knows they aren’t but _fuck_ if it doesn’t feel like it anyway and it's so intensely erotic and he knows he is free to move but he doesn’t; James is fucking into him so perfectly, stroking him off so perfectly, he wouldn't move an inch right now for anything.

And it doesn’t take much at all, his cock is so sensitive and ready to explode, just one more hard stroke; he feels a white hot heat build inside him, he sees white behind his eyes and he comes, hard, hips jerking back into James, James’s hand still working him, wringing out every last bit of energy from his orgasm. His come is shooting out all over the sheets, he is crying out; and then James shouts out, too, as he feels James ram into him with one last, hard thrust; feels James’s cock twitch and pulse inside him, feels James’s fingers dig into his hips as he hangs on through his own release, balls deep inside him.

And when they both are done, exhausted, Q collapses forward and James comes down on top of him, pressing him into the mattress and the damp sheets, his thighs and arse are wet and sticky. They each just gasp for air, breathing hard and heavy, until finally they come back to their senses.

James rolls off of him, pulls Q tight against him. Q’s back is against him, James’s arm lays across his chest and lips graze against the damp curls at the back of his neck, legs entangling again. They just listen to each other’s breathing in the dark, feel each other’s heartbeats; no words are needed now; they just said everything they needed to.

***

It’s Christmas Eve, and Q’s defusing a bomb. Just an average Christmas Eve, in their world.

Q sits cross-legged on his white flokati rug, dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of black pajama bottoms with a blue TARDIS print. The light of the fire in the grate is warm against his skin. There is only one thing he’d insisted upon when he was looking for a flat; it had to have a working fireplace. For the obvious reasons, of course; he could never be too far from fire.

James is spread out next to him on the rug, lying on his back with his head propped up by an elbow bent beneath it, one knee up. Wearing only a pair of low slung silk pajama pants, as usual, in a blue tartan print, his chest bare.

Q’s laptop is on the floor in front of him, next to the gold pen that he had given James one year ago that day in the Paris museum. James had asked Q to defuse it; said it was the only thing he wanted for Christmas.

Q looks over at James. “I always wondered why you never used it. Would have come in handy a time or two…” 

“I like that pen,” James says. “You kept pestering me about it, but it was always at home. I want to keep it in one piece. On my desk. Like a normal pen. I don’t want to accidentally blow up the whole building.” He reaches out, runs a hand over the small of Q’s back. “Reminds me of when I first realized you might actually have a thing for me. You were very flirty.”

Q has to roll his eyes, remembers that awkward flirting, which he’d done almost against his own will. “I was the the worst. I am the _worst_ flirt there ever was.”

“You were adorable.”

Q just looks at him, smiles. Watches how the flames reflect on James’s face, the light and shadows accentuating the planes of his handsome features. Wonders once again how he ever got so lucky. Remembers how much he’d wanted James to notice him, to see him.

“You always saw me, didn’t you,” Q states, suddenly. “You always saw right through me, always knew what I meant. I don’t know how, or why. I never even deserved it. I’m kind of a difficult and moody prat, really.”

“And I, myself, am a constant ray of sunshine,” James drawls, teasing him. “I _invented_ difficult and moody.” But then he grows a little more serious, pretends to pout. “I’m wounded you underestimate me. I’m a spy, after all.” He rolls onto his side, lays his hand on Q’s knee, runs it up his thigh. “I had my suspicions about you, early on, but you’re the one who told me how to read you. Don’t you remember, that same day you gave me the pen? You said that art and code weren’t that different. It’s about making sense of patterns. What’s shown is just as important as what’s _not_ shown. With you, it’s always about what’s not shown, what’s not said. That’s just who you are.”

Q is startled. He looks down at the pen in his hand, prevaricating. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Weren’t you?”

“Well. Maybe.” Q gives that some thought. He’s surprised at being so easily worked out, but his heart is profoundly touched. He shrugs a little. “I didn't think anyone was listening.”

“I heard you. I saw you.”

Q looks back up then, smiles at James. “I wanted you the minute I saw you, you know. But I honestly never thought I had a chance.”

James snorts. “I actually tried to keep my hands to myself. But then you went and teased and flirted with me, challenged me all the time. Gave me things like that pen. I was putty in your hands after that.”

Q eyes him sidewise, lowers his eyelashes seductively. “Actually you’ve always felt rather _hard_ in my hands.”

James rolls his eyes. “You’re going to feel me hard again, just as soon as you finish that pen.”

“Then I’ll get right to it.”

Q logs in to deactivate the chip embedded in the pen. That done, he carefully removes the cap from the pen and with a pair of tweezers, removes the chip. Q puts the cap back on, then hands the pen to James.

“I’ll just mark that one off the Q Branch inventory list as lost.”

“Thank you, Q.” James rolls the gold pen appreciatively around in his hand, admiring the initials again. “I’ll treasure it always.” He leaps to his feet suddenly, then says, “Before we get distracted by other things, I’ve got something for you, too.”

He returns a minute later, sits down cross-legged in front of Q, and hands a box to him. Q is shocked - it’s been a few years since anyone has given him a Christmas present, and over the course of his life, those occasions had been few and far between. Q looks at him, still too surprised to speak, but James is smiling, eager to please him.

“What, you thought I wouldn’t get you anything? Go ahead. Open it.”

Q opens the box slowly. It’s a handsome fold-over hunting knife, a Fallkniven P3Gc with stainless steel blade, the wood on the handle so dark and polished it’s almost black. And on the side of the handle is a silver oval-shaped plate engraved with the initials… _JB_.

“We have the same initials. Haven’t you noticed that yet, Major Jonathan Boothroyd?”

Q takes it out of the box, feels the weight of it in his hand, feels the weight of his surprise and love in his heart. He lets out a long sigh, a little laugh. “Fuck me, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that before.”

He looks up to James, but before he can say anything more, James reaches out and closes his larger hand over the one that Q is still holding out with the knife.

“I know you don’t pull the trigger, so to speak. And I hope to god you never have to. But I want you to have this. I’d feel better knowing you had something to protect yourself. Always carry this, ok? I would like that very much."

Q looks down at the beautiful, lethal instrument in his hand, then back to the other one sitting across from him. He nods, a little teary-eyed. “Yes, ok. Always. Thank you, James.” And before he can even think to stop himself, he admires their shared _JB_ initials again and he blurts out a joke. “Just think how easy it will be to monogram the towels and silverware.” He laughs, but his laugher trails away weakly as he is met with silence.

 _Oh, shit_. There he goes again. He suddenly realizes why his suggestive jokes so often fall a little flat; there's always too much a kernel of truth at the core.

James is looking at him intently, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Would you like that, Q? Would you like to share towels and silverware?”

Q blushes intensely. When would he ever learn to just shut up. And yet...

_Fuck it._

He _would_. He would like to share everything.

Q puts the knife carefully away in the box, then sets the box aside. He gets up on his knees in front of James, slides his arms around his neck, his hands on bare hot skin. “Yes,” he says, barely a whisper, their gazes locked. “I would.”

A full smile breaks across James’s face. “Well, that’s a good thing. You’ve seen my flat. You know _I_ don’t have any of that.”

James’s words are nuanced, as they always are; and Q doesn't expect more than that, at least for now. But James's smile speaks volumes.

Q suddenly leans forward and presses his lips to James’s. James responds eagerly and wraps his arms around Q’s hips, hauls him up into his lap, legs still crossed, Q not letting go of his neck or breaking the kiss. Q winds his legs around James’s waist, keeps kissing him until they both finally have to break apart for air. And when they do, they just look at each other again, eyes drinking in each other’s faces.

“Best Christmas I ever had, Q,” James finally says. “And about to get better…” He prys one of Q’s hands off his neck, guides it down to his cock which is clearly outlined through the thin silk of his pajama bottoms. “Speaking of feeling me hard in your hand…”

Q runs his long fingers over James’s cock, just skimming over the surface of the slick fabric, smiles mischievously. “Hmmm. Now that I’ve done a manual inspection, I believe your dermal widget may be in need of some extra special servicing. It needs discharging by an expert, since it’s seen some heavy use lately.”

James just raises an eyebrow. “Is that so.”

Q continues with a deadpan voice. “Under heavy use conditions, it should be discharged _at least_ once every twenty-four hours. Preferably more. You know, to keep it in tip-top working order.” Q strokes him harder. “As your Quartermaster, I really can’t authorize you to engage in any sort of do-it-yourself maintenance. You’re going to have to let me do it.”

“Well, in that case,” James murmurs, sucking in his breath with another hard squeeze from Q, “I surrender my widget to Q Branch.”

Q narrows his eyes slyly. “I've heard reports of four reliable discharge performances during a twenty-four hour period. Even six. Or more. But those are probably just grossly exaggerated, completely false reports.” He scoffs teasingly. “Couldn’t possibly be true. It would probably just overheat and explode.”

“You are _so_ just playing with fire now,” James says, smiling slyly in return. James’s hands wend their way under Q’s t-shirt. “Let’s put it to the test, shall we? You know. For science.”

“For science,” Q agrees, solemnly.

But he can’t control a smile breaking out across his face as James’s hands mercilessly dance over the soft skin of his ribs, his chest, brush over his sensitive nipples, then he tweaks them, actually _tweaks_ them. Q yelps and laughs, now squirming and ticklish under James’s insistent, teasing touches, his delicious punishment for taunting him with dermal widgets again; and James is laughing, too.

Now James is kissing him again. The fingertips under his shirt begin a downward descent, brushing against Q’s stomach as they find the waistband of his pajama bottoms, pushing them down; his hand finds Q’s equally hard length. “Now _this_ is the present I _really_ want to unwrap,” James murmurs against the skin of his neck.

Q shivers and sighs as James strokes him hard, once, then once again. Then James lowers him gently onto his back, the fluffy wool of the rug soft beneath them. James lays down on top of him; his lips graze over Q’s jaw, his mouth. Q’s hands roam down James’s back, slide under the waistband of the silky fabric and push it down, then rest on James’s bare arse, fingers digging in.

“Love you,” Q sighs, as James’s lips now glide down the long column of his neck, and he arches beneath him, his hips pushing up against him.

“Love _you_ ,” James breathes, softly, into his ear before he catches Q’s earlobe lightly between his teeth, holds on almost possessively for a second before he lets go again, goes back to ravishing the soft skin just beneath. Q’s eyes flutter completely shut, he trembles beneath him; and he just lets go, sinking with pure trust and love and confidence into those strong arms so tight around him.

Q knows the truth of it, in that moment. James is right, he _is_ a romantic. He _does_ want to share everything. He _does_ want a happy ending with the white picket fence. Or, in their world, more likely a bullet proof, blast proof, solid core, high grade reinforced steel security gate topped with razor wire and monitored 24/7 by CCTV, with a couple of guards in front with AK-47s. _Whatever_.

It really only matters who he’s with behind it.

_Finally, finally...his heart feels full. He feels warm. He feels safe._

_And he is loved._


End file.
